


Anvil + Duct Tape

by gaelicspirit



Series: The Ambassador Series [1]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bombs, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missions Gone Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 01:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13113351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaelicspirit/pseuds/gaelicspirit
Summary: Set mid-S2. Not all missions are a success, no matter how good Mac is at improvising. One failure hits Mac particularly hard and before he’s able to re-balance, the team is in the middle of another crisis—this time Mac’s ready to die before he fails to protect another innocent. Unless Jack has something to say about it.





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pandi19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandi19/gifts).



> **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. And…the characters swear a bit more in my hands than they do on the show. But being that they’re both ex-military, I figure some creative license is permissible. 
> 
> Lastly, medical inaccuracies abound. I _did_ research, but…then I fictioned. So, don’t try any of the medical procedures in this story at home, kids.
> 
>  **Author’s Note:** SO. I wasn’t going to watch this reboot, primarily in a protest of betraying my childhood as I loved the original MacGyver (or as those who knew me growing up might call it: my first obsession). But, I have friends who speak my language and know exactly what words to use to entice me into doing certain things I swore I wouldn’t (fortunately, these friends use their powers for good and not evil, since I haven’t yet been arrested). And thanks to one of these friends, I ended up downloading and watching all episodes of this new MacGyver on a few recent work trips—and I was quite entertained. 
> 
> While CBS tends to pull their punches (so to speak) when it comes to following through with the physical and emotional impact of what the characters on many of their shows endure, the brotherhood and camaraderie among this Phoenix Foundation team is strong, and it’s that bond—plus Mac’s improvisation and intellect—that drew me to writing in this fandom…and convinced me to include moderate to high levels of hurt/comfort and angst. Just because.
> 
> So, **pandigirl** , this one is for you. Merry Christmas, friend.
> 
> Big thanks to my friend and confidant, **ThruTerrysEyes** , who reads it all and laughs at every homophone blunder. Thanks for your help, as always.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.

You can’t make a mistake when you improvise.  
– Patti Smith

**

**Part 1: Before**

_-Mac-_

The darkness was heavy, as if the very air had weight.

Not the scientifically provable atmospheric pressure of 14.7 psi, but something less tangible, less solid. Something that pressed around him from every side, offering resistance to the natural state of breathing. As if he had to consciously remind his lungs to inflate, deflate.

It was exhausting, this weight.

It kept MacGyver from the peace of sleep; kept his muscles tense, coiled, ready. It kept him from being able to stand down from a mission that ended five days ago, nothing having called him into the Phoenix Foundation since they’d landed in a flurry of shouts and blood and lights.

The sound of water running through pipes caused Mac to jump; he’d been sitting on the living room couch since the latest nightmare shook him awake with the force of a punch. His sheets had been soaked through from sweat—again—and the voices and images from his dream chased him into consciousness until breathing became simply one of several options.

The living room offered more space, but it was stifling. Almost as if the darkness around him was growing. And he knew what could wait in the dark.

Knew better than almost anyone.

He sat still, his fists in his lap, his shoulders tense against the couch, focusing on finding the outlines of familiarity in the space around him. The TV, the bike he was forever fixing, the tattered chair Bozer wouldn’t get rid of. He focused on the sound of the water turning off, on Bozer humming tunelessly as he got ready for his day, on the uptick in traffic on the 101 as dawn approached.

He focused on his own breathing.

Bozer headed to the kitchen, flicking on the light and coffee maker in a simultaneous, unconscious motion. Mac barely moved, tracking his friend’s motion through knowledge of his habits rather than sight. Since completing his training, Bozer had been going into the office early, taking on additional lab work to help other field teams.

Mac knew that Matty was trying to find the right fit for Bozer’s talents other than allowing him to stick with his best friend just _because_. He supported the effort; Bozer had a ton of potential and skill in prosthetic design. He didn’t want it wasted just so that Bozer could keep tabs on Mac.

A travel mug of black coffee in hand, Bozer wandered from the light of the kitchen to the darkened living room, humming to himself and inserting lyrics about finding his keys and cell phone as he reached for the light switch.

“Damn, man!” Bozer jerked back at the sight of Mac sitting stiff and silent on the couch. “You trying to give me a heart attack, lyin’ in wait like that?”

Mac lifted one hand, holding out Bozer’s keys. “You left them on the coffee table,” he said, surprised at the rasp of his voice. “Didn’t see your phone. You probably left it in the lab. Again.”

Bozer drew his head back at the sound. “You look awful, Mac.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not kidding.” Bozer advanced in two strides and snatched the keys from Mac’s hand like he was afraid the other man was about to make a break for it. “Your bruises look bruised—and what the hell are you doing sitting here in the dark? It’s five in the morning!”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Mac replied, feeling his split lip pull slightly with the motion of words. “’s too hot.”

His tongue darted out instinctively to dab at the healing wound. He could feel the cut that bisected his forehead down to his right eyebrow, pucker slightly as he shifted to stare more fully at Bozer, challenging him to say more about the marks on his face.

He knew his eye was still blackened, his cheek still bruised. He knew the bones in his hand were fractured. Those wounds didn’t matter. They would heal.

The ones Bozer couldn’t see, those were the ones Mac felt now.

“Uh-huh.” Bozer nodded slowly; Mac could see the wheels turning in his friend’s head. “You maybe talk to Jack about this whole not sleeping thing?”

Mac looked down and away, shaking his head. “Jack’s got enough to deal with.”

Jack had a concussion and temporary hearing loss. Because of Mac. There was no way he was adding to that just because of a few nightmares.

“This is the fourth night in a row, man,” Bozer argued.

Mac frowned, rubbing the flat of his palms against his sweat pants. “Fourth night of what?”

“You not sleeping,” Bozer replied, as though the answer should have been obvious. “And don’t bother denying it, Mac. You seem to forget how well I know you.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“Mmm-hmm. So…you’re saying that’s why you decided to rebuild my old man’s Ham radio the other night? Or this whole _it’s too hot_ bullshit?”

Mac lifted a shoulder, still not looking at Bozer. “It _is_ hot.”

“Oh, like you couldn’t find fourteen different ways to super-size our AC power if you wanted to.”

Sighing, Mac pushed to his feet, hoping Bozer missed his slight waver when he stretched to his full height.

“When’s the last time you ate something?” Bozer demanded, one hand on his hip. He may be worried about Mac’s self-induced insomnia, but he took not eating to a whole new level. It was a personal affront to his friendship.

“Pizza,” Mac replied. “With you, last night. Remember?”

Bozer’s face folded into a familiar expression of denial mixed with incredulity. “Uh, no. You _ordered_ pizza. There’s a difference.” Shaking his head once as if deciding something, Bozer gestured with both hands. “Tonight, we’re doing it up right. Steak dinner, all the trimmings. And I’m getting Jack over here to talk some sense into you.”

At that, Mac turned to face his friend. “Bozer, just leave it, okay? I’m fine.”

“You and I have very different definitions of the word, _fine_. And I’m pretty sure mine can be found in Webster’s, so yours don’t count.”

“Look,” Mac exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just need a little more time, okay? You don’t have to go all….” He waved his hand in Bozer’s general direction, hoping his friend picked up the non-verbal cue.

“What? I don’t have to go all, _what_?”

Mac sighed again. “Overboard.”

Bozer lifted his chin. “So that’s how it is, huh? I worry about you and it’s _overboard_? Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you, man.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad….” Bozer set down his coffee, his free hand landing on his hip. Mac braced himself. A two-handed hip stance was never a good sign. “Want to know the last time I saw you like this?”

“Not really.” Mac crossed his arms over his chest.

He knew it was a defensive posture and he wasn’t doing himself any favors but he couldn’t seem to help it. If it wouldn’t draw too much attention to his state of mind, he would have put his back to a wall.

“When Nikki died,” Bozer plowed forward. “Or, well, when we _thought_ she died. In a car wreck. That you were in as well. Only you weren’t because you’d been _shot_. Not that I could know that since I was out of your circle of trust—y’know what? That’s not important. Not important.” Bozer sliced his hand through the air, dismissing his words. “How ‘bout when you came back from Afghanistan, huh?”

Mac brought his chin up, feeling the blood drain from his face. He’d been anticipating the Nikki argument—it was rehashed enough times he’d learned it by rote. But Afghanistan hit a bit close to the mark. And Bozer saw it, stepping closer.

“You were wrecked then, man. _Wrecked_. Took you weeks to get back to sleeping in your bed—and not on the couch or, hell, Mac, the floor of my room.”

“Yeah, _time_ ,” Mac argued, his face flushing suddenly with heat at the reminder of how unsteady he’d been back then. “Like I said…I just need more time.”

He started to turn away from Bozer, heading toward the deck and some open space. Breathable air. It was not empirically possible for the room to heat up simply by their emotions, and yet he swore he felt the flash of flame against his back, the vacuum of an explosion’s backdraft tugging on his lungs.

“I read the file, Mac,” Bozer revealed, halting Mac’s escape.

“You what?” Mac half-turned, gaping at his friend in disbelief.

“What?” Bozer spread his arms wide, opening himself up for Mac to challenge him. “I’m a full-fledged Agent now. Capital ‘A’. Part of the team. I need to know what this team has dealt with—know where we have weaknesses.”

Mac looked away, worrying his wounded lip. He knew Bozer was right; he’d read the files from when Jack or Cage or even Riley had been on missions without him. He needed to know his team’s history. But this one…it just wasn’t….

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Don’t.” Mac shook his head, not looking back at his friend.

Bozer stepped forward and Mac stepped back. Bozer stopped his advance, but not his attempt to get through. “You did everything you could to save that family.”

“A kid got killed, Boze,” Mac argued, seeing it all again playing in Technicolor through his mind’s eye.

He could smell the semtex and the gunpowder, the sweat and blood. He could hear the mother’s shout of protection and the boy’s anguish cry of denial. And he could feel the flames licking against his back as Jack pulled him to safety, leaving the family they were meant to save behind to be destroyed.

“…know why Jack was on medical leave and you were taking time off, but weren’t with him,” Bozer was saying. “I mean, Jack being on leave was enough for me to check into it, but you weren’t talking, so.”

“So you just had to find out for yourself,” Mac rasped, putting his back to Bozer, staring toward their deck. He needed air. _Now_.

“Yeah,” Bozer asserted. “And I know you, man. I know you’re blaming yourself, but…it’s been a week. I think your…internal processor might be off-line.”

“Is that right?” Mac breathed the question. Every muscle was tensed to move. He just…couldn’t bring himself to walk away.

Bozer paused, either picking up that Mac wasn’t handling this conversation well, or running out of ways to push his friend to talk. “Look. I gotta head in early. Let me just call Jack—“

“No.” Mac turned quickly, dropping his arms, his hands fisted at his sides. “I told you: he has enough to deal with. He doesn’t need…,” Mac shook his head, swallowing. “This is nothing.”

“Mac, the hearing loss…it was temporary,” Bozer argued. “Jack’s fine—he’s back at work.”

Mac frowned. “What?”

Bozer nodded. “I though you knew. I mean, with you two it’s like…you drink too much, he gets the hangover.”

Mac rubbed the back of his neck. Jack was fine? Back at work? How had he not realized…?

“Look, man, I get it—“

“No,” Mac shook his head. “You don’t.” He looked up at Bozer. “You don’t get what it means to be the only thing standing between some kid and death and then to move out of the way.” He took a step forward, oblivious to the way his hands trembled at his sides, or the way Bozer pulled back in reaction to his tone. “You don’t get what it means to see a mother die to save her son and then see that son hit by so many bullets it _shreds_ him.”

“Mac….”

“You don’t get what it’s like to stop this bomb and that bomb and keep moving forward only to have an _entire convoy_ blow up because you _missed one_.”

He didn’t realize how close he’d gotten to Bozer until he felt his friend’s hands on his shoulders, stopping his motion, the weight almost unbearable. He took a shuddering breath, stepping back.

“And I hope you never do.” Turning he made his way toward the deck, tossing one last statement over his shoulder. “Don’t call Jack.”

Stepping from the living room to the open-aired deck, he didn’t stop until he was standing at the balcony edge, staring over the city as the sun began to make its ascent. He could hear Bozer’s slightly rebellious reply of, “Don’t have my phone anyway,” slipping through the gray dawn toward him.

He gripped the railing and pulled the cool morning air into his starving lungs. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of the slightly splintered edge of the wood beneath his fingers. He ran his palm over the worn flat of the rail, focusing on the grooves and ridges, centering every thought on that touch before opening his eyes.

The sky was red.

Not even the burnished bits of gold that edged the horizon as the sun climbed from the shadows tempered the inflamed morning. It meant something. A sky like that, it was a warning. Mac focused on the slow rise of the sun, the way nature continued, relentless in its cadence regardless of the meager lives within and around it.

Nature was constant. It didn’t miss. It didn’t waiver. It didn’t fail.

The burgeoning light seemed to strike each building, car, and street sign, turning the city into a blanket of gold. It felt as though, if he stared at it long enough, the peace that momentarily enveloped the city might actually be real. Something he could hold onto. Believe in. Trust.

Moving toward the horizon, sandwiching the light with its mass, was a storm cloud, turning the air cooler and enveloping everything the light touched, including MacGyver.

A sound reached his ears—not one from the waking city around him, but a voice. Bozer was talking to someone. For a moment, he was puzzled: wasn’t Bozer leaving? And who would be here this early in the morning? Then it hit him. Bozer might not have _his_ phone, but he didn’t need it if he was intent on reaching Jack.

And when it came to helping MacGyver, Bozer was nothing if not intent.

Sighing, Mac moved over to the small alcove on the side of the deck and picked up the other landline they had installed for emergencies. Covering the base with the palm of his hand, he breathed shallowly, listening.

_“…shouldn’t be doing this, but…I really think you need to be here, man. I mean, damn him and his tough-guy bullshit anyway.”_

_“What. Time. Is. It.”_

Mac bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the poison in Jack’s tone. If Bozer were calling about anything other than Mac, there would have been hell to pay.

_“Man, yeah, I’m going in early ‘cause Matty has me working on this lab thing—I mean, ever since I got through spy school she’s been trying to plug me into any random area she can so I haven’t really been around to pay much attention to Mac since you guys got home and clearly I’ve missed some important clues—“_

_“Dude. Land your plane.”_

Mac felt his heart rate pick up speed.

He could interrupt at any time. He knew that. He could stop Bozer’s ramble before he got anywhere close to why he was calling. He could shut this down in its tracks. Right now.

So…why couldn’t he get his voice to work?

_“Right…right, sorry. Here’s the deal. Mac’s not sleeping. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him eat more than like, a power bar. He just…he says he needs more time, but—“_

_“You’re not convinced.”_

_“He’s having nightmares again. I’ve heard him. I’m telling you, man, last time he was like this was—“_

_“Afghanistan.”_

Bozer’s exhale was filled with relief. _“Yes._ Thank _you.”_

Mac heart was pounding so hard he was surprised Bozer and Jack couldn’t hear it through the phone line. He heard Jack sigh tiredly into the phone. He could also tell the man was now moving around his house—most likely grabbing whatever clothes were handy so he could head over and rescue Mac from himself.

He should stop him now. Say something. Deny needing _anything_ , let alone his partner’s solid, reassuring presence.

 _“Our boy is aces at compartmentalizing,”_ Jack was saying, _“but sometimes…you just run out of storage space.”_

_“I’m pretty sure the only thing that is keeping him from completely decompressing is the fact that you guys managed to bring the Ambassador home—even though he was messed up.”_

Mac closed his eyes. Messed up didn’t quite cover it. The man was on life support, and his family was dead. Even if he did survive—

The buzz in the pocket of his sweats made him jump as Jack said, _“Shit, hang on,”_ at the same time. Mac grabbed his cell phone from his pocket. Matty. Texting them to get to Phoenix immediately. The Ambassador had just died.

_“Aw, dammit, Matty.”_

_“What? What is it?”_ Bozer demanded.

_“Ambassador didn’t make it.”_

_“Damn. Maybe we can wait to tell Mac?”_

_“Too late,”_ Jack growled. _“Matty texted both of us.”_

_“Jack….”_

_“Yeah, yeah, I’m way ahead of you, pal.”_

_“Just…maybe don’t say I called you? Mac_ specifically _asked me not to. Said you had enough to deal with and made it pretty clear he didn’t want the extra attention.”_

 _“Yeah, well, sometimes what we want and what we need are very different things,”_ Jack replied. _“You get into the office. I’ll take care of our boy.”_

Mac waited until the line went dead and then slowly replaced the receiver back in the cradle. He felt both hot and cold at once, trembling from the inside out. He wanted to scream, throw up, to hit something hard enough his knuckles bled. As he heard the latch catch on their front door at Bozer’s departure he forced himself to breathe.

Thunder rumbled in the background, punctuating the sound of his fist crashing against the wooden balcony rail. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t stopped Bozer from ratting him out to Jack. It didn’t matter that Jack knew exactly what Bozer was worried about.

It didn’t matter because it was all just words.

And whatever his well-meaning friends thought, he didn’t need more _words_.

He needed to move.  To breathe. To get _away_.

* * *

_-Jack-_

The great thing about living in the City of Angels, Jack always thought, was the weather. It was unfailingly predictable. He could make almost any plans on almost any day and be guaranteed success.

Except for the two days each year when it rained. And man did it _rain_. Nothing like springs in Texas, but it could dump. And when it dumped, people freaked the hell out. Traffic was abysmal. Hillsides turned into mudslides. Normally bone-dry run-offs turned into white water rapids.

By the time Jack reached Mac’s house he was spitting nails and ready to rip someone’s arm off and beat them with it. Just because… _traffic_.

And maybe a little bit of worry about one Angus MacGyver’s current state of mind.

“Mac!” Jack bellowed, crashing through the front door without even a knock of warning.

He didn’t register how wound up he was—and therefore how potentially scary he sounded—until he saw Mac. The kid had one foot up on the edge of the couch, tying his shoe, and jumped at the noise, wobbling a bit.

It was that marked unsteadiness from someone who seemed to move with such ingrained, graceful confidence at any other time that pulled Jack to the present.

“You got Matty’s text?”

“You know I did,” Mac replied, his tone clipped as he returned to tying his shoe.

Jack frowned as Mac straightened, grabbing his hoodie. “What are you doing?”

“Going for a run.”

Jack drew his head back. “In this? Are you nuts?”

“It’s too hot in this house,” Mac tried. Jack narrowed his eyes at the thinly disguised panic in the younger man’s voice. “I need some air.”

“Bud, you’re gonna drown before you hit the highway.”

Mac pulled his hood up and moved around Jack toward his front door. “I’m fine.”

“The hell you are,” Jack countered, reaching out for Mac’s arm. The kid was too quick; he dodged Jack’s grip and hit the threshold of the door at a run, disappearing into the rain before Jack was able to say another word.

“Son of a bitch,” Jack spat, heading back to his car, pulling the front door shut behind him and making sure it latched. Continuing his blue-streaked vocabulary, Jack ducked into the GTO, dripping on the upholstery and fogging up the windows almost immediately. It wasn’t enough that it was raining, it had to be a _cold_ rain. Just friggin’ _sweet_.

His phone was in his hand before he’d wiped the rainwater from his eyes.

 _“Why am I not talking to your face right now?”_ Matty Webber’s voice sounded tinny from the speaker of his cell phone.

“Well, Matty, probably because one of your Agents was hanging on by a very thin thread, which you cut when you sent out that fucking text about the Ambassador.” He wasn’t in the mood to coddle their boss. Not after seeing the haunted look in his young partner’s eyes.

To her credit, Matty paused before replying. _“How bad?”_

“Pretty damn bad,” Jack sighed. “Bozer had to call me. Haven’t talked to Mac in a week. Now I know why.”

_“This isn’t on you, Jack.”_

While Jack was working on a way to say _damn right, it’s not on me_ and _it’s not your fault, either_ at the same time, Matty spoke again. _“How long do you need?”_

“Honestly, no idea. I have to find him first.”

_“Find him?”_

“He went on a run.”

_“In this? He’ll drown!”_

Jack chuckled mirthlessly. “Try telling him that.”

Matty paused again. _“I shouldn’t have sent that text. I…wasn’t thinking about how hard that mission was on you two.”_

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Jack stated flatly, immediately pushing any emotional reaction he might have had at her admission down into his gut where he could pull from it and use it to fuel him when he was at his weakest. “But I tell you what, when I find him, that kid is damn well gonna use his words.”

 _“Take the morning,”_ Matty told him. _“Go untangle Baby Einstein and then check back in.”_

“You got it, Boss,” Jack replied, cutting off the connection before mumbling, “Think it’s going to take more than a morning, Matilda.”

Pulling out of the driveway, Jack tried to think where Mac be headed—and if it would be somewhere he could follow in the car. His right ear began to beep—a high-pitched tone—and he rubbed at it with the heel of his hand. The hearing loss from the explosion had tapered quickly, but the tinnitus still lingered making him feel like Clark Kent hearing Lex Luthor when no one else could. It distracted the hell out of him at the most inconvenient times—like now.

He headed toward Griffith Observatory; Mac had been known to follow a trail that ended there a time or two. It was a total shot in the dark, but when it came to his partner, following his gut was often times his best maneuver. The beep faded as he continued to drive and he worked his jaw and rolled his neck, trying to keep it at bay. Last thing he needed was to have it flare up when he found Mac.

The kid already blamed himself for the failed mission; he didn’t want Mac to take on the guilt of Jack being hurt when there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

“Dammit, kid,” Jack muttered, eyes scanning the side of the road for signs of a lone runner in a dark hoodie. “Shoulda never let you deal with this on your own. Shoulda watched out for you better.”

In truth, Jack had been in the hospital for a full day after their return—spending most of that time sleeping off the effects of the concussion. It hadn’t bothered him that MacGyver wasn’t there; the kid had been pretty roughed up in Argentina. He’d needed some downtime as well.

It wasn’t until he hadn’t heard from him for several days afterwards that Jack had started to worry. He pounded the flat of his hand on the steering wheel.

“Can’t believe I let it go until Bozer had to call,” he berated himself.

The group of Argentinian rebels modeling themselves after Che Guevara had set their sights on the Ambassador as their way of making their cause known. It should have been a quick in and out—pull the Ambassador and his family from the Embassy and get them back to the States. It wasn’t until Mac radioed that the rebels had planted a bomb—and then gotten himself trapped in the room with the bomb and the Ambassador’s family—that Jack felt the mission slip sideways.

He’d seen Mac take some hits as they worked their way into the Embassy—some hard enough to set the kid on his ass—but he’d kept pushing forward. There wasn’t much that could keep Angus MacGyver down; Jack had seen that first hand when the then nineteen-year-old had cleared a path of IEDs for a troop convoy through the streets of Kandahar.

Mac had kept up a running report via comms as he fought to disarm the bomb and protect the Ambassador’s family. Jack could still remember the sound of the doors blasting open, the woman’s scream followed by Mac’s shout of denial when she was shot, and his agonized declaration that the Ambassador’s twelve-year-old son had gone after the rebels, avenging his mother’s death. Mac had been left with the impossible choice of going after the kid or disarming the bomb.

Jack had made it easy for him.

He’d ordered his partner to stay where he was and kill that bomb. By the time Jack cleared the door, the Ambassador in tow, there were only 15 seconds left on the bomb’s timer and Mac was white as a sheet. Jack had done the only thing he could do: he called an audible, physically hauling Mac from the room and getting the three of them as clear of the blast radius as he could.

He didn’t remember much after wrapping his arm around Mac’s waist and grabbing the Ambassador’s arm. Later, he was informed that he’d been knocked unconscious, the Ambassador hit with enough shrapnel the medics had to do emergency surgery on the exfil chopper. Mac had somehow managed to get both of them out of the building and to the chopper on his own. Matty informed Jack later that Mac had seen the body of the Ambassador’s son, declaring him KIA in the official report.

Brake lights illuminated the shoulder and bank of the road like a one-toned Christmas tree. Jack dragged a hand down his face, trying to dismiss the memories of the failed mission and focusing on the one at hand: finding MacGyver.

Just then, he saw a figure running along the paved trail along the highway—heading right for the Observatory as Jack had guessed. The kid was running like the Devil had his name in his pocket and was coming to collect. His hood was back and rain had turned his blond hair dark.

Jack took the next exit and circled around until he blocked the path where Mac would have to cross the street. It was somewhat secluded; only one house located at the end of the street, surrounded by a stone privacy fence and metal gate. It was what Mac called the start of the muckity-muck section of his run, where all the people with more money than they’d ever know what to do with congregated.

Oblivious of the deluge that soaked him almost immediately, Jack got out of his GTO and leaned against the closed door, waiting. It didn’t take long. Mac came into view within minutes and skidded to a wet halt when he saw Jack was blocking his path.

Jack had been prepared for Mac’s indignation. He was prepared for resistance and for argument. But he wasn’t prepared for the exhaustion that shadowed his friend’s eyes or the way the rain seemed to have washed all the color from his skin.

The bruises seemed to have spread to a general smudge of sleepless shadows and his eyes were bloodshot from the rain, making the blue irises stand out like neon. Shoulders sagging, Mac grabbed a few quick breaths before looking at Jack and the utter lack of expression on his face chilled the older man.

“Jack, go. Just…let me deal with this, okay? My own way.”

“Your own way?” Jack shouted over the sound of the rain beating against the metal roof of his car. “You mean like not eating or sleeping and literally running yourself into the ground?”

“C’mon, man,” Mac rested his hands on his narrow hips, rotating away with a roll of his eyes. “Like you don’t have your own coping mechanisms.”

“How you handling the nightmares, man?”

Mac shook his head, dropping his gaze to the ground. “God dammit, Bozer.”

“Naw, uh-uh,” Jack pushed off from the side of his car and took two steps toward Mac. “This ain’t got nothing to do with Bozer, Mac. You think I forgot about Afghanistan? Cairo?” Mac’s head snapped up at that word and Jack thought he might break his teeth based on how hard he was clenching his jaw. “I’ve _been there_ , man. I get it. And even if I didn’t know the signs, I know _you_ ,” he pointed at Mac’s chest coming just shy of poking the other man, “well enough to know when something’s chewing on you.”

Mac pressed his lips together, sucking the rainwater off of his skin, stubbornly quiet.

“You’re _not_ dealing with it, and it’s eating you up.” When Mac simply looked down, shaking his head slowly, Jack continued. “I’m sorry about the Ambassador—“

“No.” Mac barked, looking up, his wet hair hanging in his eyes. He shook his head once. “No, Jack.”

Jack lifted his chin, mindful of the dangerous light in MacGyver’s eyes. He’d realized a long time ago that where he tended to explode when angry, scattering shrapnel on anyone near him then cooling off almost immediately, Mac was more of a slow-burning fuse. He gathered in intensity and heat until he reached a targeted strike. And when that strike hit, it was devastating. Jack had only been the recipient of such an impact once before, and it took him some time to regroup afterwards.

He did not want to be there again.

“Look, Mac—“

“If you hadn’t pulled me out of there, I could have stopped that bomb!” Mac shouted, his hands fisted at his sides, his chin trembling with emotion.

 _Oh, hell no_. Unwilling to let Mac turn his guilt into a poisoned anger that tore through both of them, Jack stepped up into the younger man’s personal bubble, not giving Mac room to maneuver.

“There were _fifteen seconds_ left, man. You would have died with them.”

“ _You don’t know that!”_ Mac roared, leaning forward into the rain until they were practically nose-to-nose, the tendons of his neck stretching with the strength of his ire.

 _“Yes, I do!_ ” Jack returned, matching Mac in volume. “You don’t think I saw you, all that time running around the Sandbox? You don’t think I know what you can do and what you can’t do?”

“You are _not_ the EOD expert, Jack—“

“ _Neither are you anymore!”_ Jack bellowed, aching to reach out and shake the younger man. He forced himself to keep his hands at his sides as he pinned MacGyver with angry eyes. “You are a government agent now, Mac. Your job was not to disarm the bomb, it was to get the Ambassador out alive and _you did that_.”

“And his family, Jack,” Mac shouted, then huffed out a rough, wet breath, sinking back on his heels. “The Ambassador _and his family_. And I didn’t, man. I…,” his breath caught and he looked away. “I lost them.”

Jack swallowed, watching the emotion play across the younger man’s face, a shiver rocking his thin frame.

“I should have _stayed_ ,” Mac said, his voice rough from yelling and emotion. “I should have stayed and kept trying.”

“There wasn’t enough time,” Jack asserted, his hands out, open, not sure if he still wanted to shake the other man, or hug him tight enough all of his broken pieces melded back together.

For one beat Mac just breathed, his shoulders lifting and falling with the effort, rain running down his face in a hundred tiny rivers.

“Do you know what I can do in fifteen seconds, Jack?” Bright blue eyes lifted to meet Jack’s and the older man found himself catching his breath. “I can flip twenty-seven bottle caps. I can hotwire a car. I can take Bozer’s toaster completely apart in fifteen seconds.”

“C’mon, Mac….”

But Mac was on a role. His hands came up, half-reaching for Jack, his arms shaking. “I can take off my shoes and put them back on eight times in fifteen seconds. I can shuffle and deal a deck of cards. I can twist off the tops of twelve beer bottles. I can sing the half the Periodic Table of Elements song. Right up to Cadmium.”

“ _Stop_ , kid,” Jack did reach out then, wrapping his fingers around Mac’s biceps, feeling the younger man tremble.

“I can spot four IEDs, save forty soldiers,” Mac continued, running out of steam. “I could have stopped that bomb.”

“You would have been killed,” Jack said with certainty, loosening his grip on Mac’s arms.

“Maybe,” Mac lifted a shoulder, shivering as he dragging a hand down his wet face and sluicing some of the rain away. “And maybe that kid would have lived instead of being filled with so many…so many bullet h-holes he didn’t even look….” Mac shook his head unable to continue, his breath heaving slightly, shoulders shaking from the effort.

“What about me, huh?” Jack demanded. “What happens to me if you die, Mac? You think of that when you’re busy sacrificing yourself?”

“You should…h-have let me try,” Mac reiterated, voice bouncing across his rough breath.

Jack shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, man. I couldn’t live with you dead.”

Mac curled his hands tighter into fists, his teeth chattering and suddenly Jack realized the younger man’s shivering had increased—almost violently so. This was more than just being chilled by the rain. His shoulders were heaving from the effort to shove his breath out and his trembling lips were turning blue. Jack had never seen Mac have a panic attack, but he’d helped enough of his fellow soldiers fight their way through them that he recognized the signs.

He reached up and gripped Mac by the back of his neck, his hand warm against the kid’s chilled skin. As if on instinct, Mac’s fingers grabbed onto the wet material of Jack’s long sleeves.

“Whoa, whoa, okay. Hey, there,” Jack said, ignoring all their words from before and talking to Mac in a low, gentle tone. He pressed another hand flat against Mac’s chest. “Easy, bud. How about taking a breath for me?”

As though he was just cluing in to the fact that he was in trouble, Mac’s blue eyes darted up to meet Jack’s and Jack felt ice settle in his gut at the fear he saw there.

“It’s okay, Mac. It’s just us here now. I’ve got you.”

Jack felt Mac’s knees turn to rubber, his stance not even close to steady, and he sank to the ground with Mac held steady in his grip. A mini river began to flow around them, splashing against his boots and Mac’s soaked sneakers. The desperate gasps for air shook through the younger man, and Jack pressed his hand tighter against Mac’s chest.

“C’mon, Mac,” he continued to intone, “just breathe, man. In and out, that’s it. There you go. Nice and easy. Like falling off a bike.”

“R-riding,” Mac gasped, fingers tightening against Jack’s arms, the wet material of the shirt twisting in his grip. “’s…riding a bike.”

“Well, if that’s easier for you than falling offa one, let’s go with that,” Jack readily agreed, noting how the hitch in Mac’s chest seemed to ease, his chin not quaking quite as much. “Gimme one easy breath.”

Mac pulled in a shallow, shuddering breath, then slowly exhaled through puckered lips.

“That’s great, kiddo. You’re doing great. How about another one, and count to four on the exhale.” Jack knew that Mac would recognize rescue breathing techniques from their training and was hoping it would do the trick to get him rebalanced.

“I’m s-sorry, Jack,” Mac stuttered, water splashing from his lips against Jack’s face as he bent close to the younger man. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—“

“Hey, now,” Jack broke in. He knew Mac just needed to recenter himself but he didn’t want the unnecessary apologies to get him spun up again. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, man. You did everything you could.”

“I sh-shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Mac said, pulling in a stuttering breath. “I was just….”

“Mad? Hurting? Helpless?” Jack nodded as Mac’s eyes met his, the blue bright in contrast to his pale skin. “I get it, man. I do.” He slid his hands from Mac’s neck and chest to his shoulders. “You need someone to lash out at, you can always pick me. I can take it.”

Mac nodded, exhaling. With concentrated effort, he uncurled his fingers from where they gripped Jack’s sleeves and dropped his hands into his lap, splashing up rainwater as they landed.

“You listen here, though,” Jack squeezed Mac’s shoulders, drawing his eyes. “If it’s a choice between you and the world, I’m choosing _you_ every time.”

Mac started to protest, but Jack tucked a finger beneath the younger man’s chin, lifting it and wiping rain from his eyes with a quick swipe of his hand. “It’s my job, man. And I’m damn good at my job. Ask anyone.”

“J-Jack—“

“Ah, I wasn’t finished. From the minute I met you in the middle of some goddamn desert in a war that no one understood, I knew. I’d been…hell, kid, everywhere. Done everything. Deltas. CIA. I’ve killed and I’ve saved and I’ve hated and I’ve loved. I’ve done what I wanted and I’ve done what I was told to,” Jack said, feeling his own chest tighten with emotion as Mac stared at him with big eyes, soaking in his words. “And I have never been more sure of anything in my life than I am of the fact that my _job_ is to keep you safe.”

“What about my job?” Mac asked.

“To figure out impossible shit that no one else in the world can figure out?”

Mac shook his head once. “To try to keep the world safe.” He sucked the rainwater off of his lips as he visibly sought his next words. “If you always pick me, the world could suffer.”

Jack smiled, squeezing Mac’s shoulders once, then sat back, dropping his hands to his lap. “That’s what you don’t get, pal. The world is a better place with you in it, full stop.”

Mac shook his head, looking down at the rain running around their legs.

“I won’t ever apologize for saving your life. I did the right thing, Mac. I know it.” Jack ducked his head trying to catch the other man’s eyes. “I need you to know it, too.”

The _bwop_ from a police cruiser startled both of them. Jack looked over to see a state trooper’s car pulling up behind his GTO. The cop got out and took a few steps toward them, rain splashing off the edge of his flat-rimmed hat.

“You fellas okay over there?” the cop asked.

Jack climbed to his feet. “Yessir,” he replied quickly, then reached down and hauled Mac up, bracing him as he wavered slightly, once vertical. “We just had to work out a few things.”

The cop eyed Mac closely. Jack resisted the urge to step between his young partner and the trooper. Then he saw the cop’s expression shift to something like sympathy.

“Folks in the house back there saw your car and, uh…,” he paused, hooking his thumbs in his weapon’s belt. “Well, they weren’t sure what was going on. Called us to check it out.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder at the fancy house and its protective walls. He couldn’t help but think of all the things in the world the twenty-six-year-old currently leaning against him had seen and survived—death, abandonment, the horrors of war—without _any_ protection. No walls except those he’d constructed himself.

His only gates were a few friends, who, once in a while, were able to stand between him and the world.

“We understand,” Jack replied, looking back at the cop. Mac had yet to say anything. “We’ll get out of their hair.”

He wrapped an arm around Mac, feeling the kid shiver against him as they started to turn toward his car.

“Hey, uh,” the cop called, pulling them to a stop. “If he, uh…needs somewhere to stay, there’s a shelter just two streets down. I think they have a few beds open.”

At that, Mac stuttered out a laugh that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Jack just nodded and waved his thanks, guiding Mac around the front of the car and opening the passenger door, waiting until he was solidly in before shutting the door. The cop pulled away when Jack turned on the engine.

He revved it a minute, getting the heat up inside the car, then grabbed Mac’s ice-cold hands and held them up in front of the vent, hoping the heated air would stop their shaking. Jack swallowed, looking over at his partner, watching as Mac stared sightlessly out through the front window.

“Angus, listen to me,” he said quietly. He waited until Mac’s blue eyes were settled on him. “There’s gonna be things in this life that finish you. And there are some wounds that will never heal. Some scars that make us who we are, and without them…we disappear. You have to decide for yourself what’s going to be a scar and what’s going to be the end.” Jack stared at the younger man for a moment, letting his words sink in. “I’ve got a helluva lot of scars. I know you do, too. And we ain’t finished yet, partner. Not by a long shot.”

Mac nodded, cupping his hands around the heating vent, then looked back through the windshield as Jack pulled back onto the highway. They rode in silence for several minutes, Jack doing his best to maneuver through the California traffic back to Mac’s place.

“I know,” Mac suddenly said, startling Jack from his traffic-induced reverie.

“What’s that?”

Mac looked over at him. “I know you did the right thing.”

Jack nodded, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his emotions in check.

“You’re like…a shield,” Mac started. “I don’t say it enough, but…you’re the shield between me and this…this darkness. It’s like…it’s like that kind of darkness you don’t want to look at too closely because the longer you look, the darker it gets. Like black eating black.”

Jack stayed quiet, letting Mac work through his thoughts, knowing from experience that this type of confession wouldn’t come around again for some time.

“So, thank you,” Mac said quietly. “For…y’know. Keeping me from falling into…that pit.”

“You’re welcome, brother,” Jack said softly, then shifted slightly, his wet jeans squelching against the seat. “But, now, wait…are we talking Pit of Despair or the Sarlaac Pit?” He teased, desperately needing to lighten the mood. Mac chuffed slightly, leaning back away from the heater. “’Cause in one, I’m a pirate called the Man in Black, which I have to say is pretty damn cool, but in the other I’m either a partially-blind smuggler or a clumsy bounty hunter.”

Mac grinned—a genuine grin, one Jack hadn’t seen in a long time. “You’re totally the Man in Black.”

“Yeah, boy! Like my man Johnny Cash!” With that, Jack reached over and turned on his radio until he found something loud enough to get Mac to laugh and groan, the sound easing the weight in Jack’s chest.

He knew things weren’t fixed—it was going to take Mac some time to get past this latest hurdle. But that was the job, and the kid was too damn good at what he did to crumble now. Jack would make sure his walls were strong enough to hold.

As they pulled up in front of Mac’s house, the rain finally began to ebb. Walking toward the front door, Mac paused and Jack saw him catch his own reflection in the glass.

“Man…you’re right. I do look rough,” he conceded. “I mean, I didn’t realize it was, y’know… _homeless person_ rough. But, yeah. Rough.”

Jack smiled. “You just need some of Bozer’s pancakes and a decent night’s sleep. Or ten.”

Mac headed toward his room for a shower and to change clothes, but paused in the hallway at Jack’s words. “One of those is easy,” he said, then looked over his shoulder at Jack. “I’m not real sure about the other.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Y’know, Mac…you might not remember, but…when we got back from Afghanistan, I had to sleep with the light on for a while.” Mac turned to fully face the other man, surprise clear on his face. Jack nodded, continuing. “And the radio. Anything to push back the silence. Took a few nights, but…after a while I was able to grab four hours. Then six.”

Mac swallowed, nodded. “Thanks, Jack. I’ll, uh…I’ll try that.”

“Good,” Jack grinned, then turned to head to the guest room where he had stashed a go-bag for emergencies. “I could even suggest a few songs,” he yelled back toward his younger partner, pulling out his cell and taking a look at the missed messages from the morning. Bozer, checking on Mac. Matty, with a new case. Riley, wanting to know where the hell he was.

“Anything but Willie Nelson,” Mac called back.

“You’re wounding me! I’m in actual pain, here!” Jack teased, relieved to hear the sound of Mac’s low laugh echoing back down the hallway.

He had a feeling they would need to stock up on that sound in the coming months. They just had to live as best they could for as long as they could, and try to keep the world from taking them for everything they had.

And in this job, that was the hardest part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** If Mac's meltdown about what he can do in 15 seconds sounds familiar to anyone, it's because I was a child of the late '80's and a fan of the original _21 Jump Street_. It's an homage to the Season 3 episode _Orpheus_ , which broke my heart.


	2. During

You cannot improvise unless you know exactly what you’re doing.  
– Christopher Walken

**

**Part 2: During**

_-Mac-_

Mac found it interesting the timeframes people applied to healing.

Concussion? Take four weeks. Broken ribs? About six weeks. Bruises? Depends on the person—and how tough they were. Or how good they were at concealment. But wounds to the mind? The heart? The soul?

Ignore it. Compartmentalize. Deal with it later. If it wasn’t visible, it wasn’t real.

Sometimes, Mac found himself wishing the wounds inside of him would show on the outside—a bruise around his heart, perhaps. A scar for every betrayal. Some kind of evidence of his survival beyond his simply existing.

Then again, if that were possible, his scar tissue might be too much to bear.

Two weeks after they’d returned from Argentina, Mac was curled up in a cut-out section of heating duct, set atop a table in the Phoenix lab, rewiring Bozer’s cell phone so that it could detect radio signals. Bozer had needed a heat shield for a new prosthetic, and rather than requisitioning it, Mac had simply climbed up into the ductwork and removed an extra section. The leftover piece provided the perfect noise-deafening chamber to test the radio-wave reception.

Across the room, Bozer stood at the lab table next to the A.I. they’d constructed, headphones on, shoulders rolling to the beat of the music as he worked his fingers along the cheekbones of the clay model currently occupying his attention. If Mac held himself very still, he could pick up the tinny sound of Bozer’s music in the curved walls of the ductwork alcove he’d folded himself into.

Listening as hard as he was, he heard the _burr_ of his cell phone vibrating against the table next to where Bozer stood. Since Mac had absconded with his friend’s phone, it only seemed fair he leave his as collateral.

Mac waited until Bozer noticed the vibration and pulled his headphones away from his ears.

“It’s Matty,” he called, turning off his music and picking up the phone.

“Of course it is,” Mac muttered, focusing on a particularly problematic wire.

“She wants us in the war room.”

“’K,” Mac replied, distracted by the wire. There. _Finally_. He closed the backing on Bozer’s phone and looked up, sensing an elongated silence, to find Bozer staring at him. “What?”

“Why are you sitting in a…heating duct?”

Mac looked at his environment. He supposed it did seem slightly odd, his being curled up in three-fourths of a metal cylinder. He glanced back at his friend.

“Good acoustics.”

“Right,” Bozer nodded slowly, stretching the word out like taffy. “Well, unwind your acoustical self and let’s hit the elevator.” He shucked his white lab coat, then grabbed Mac’s phone. “And gimme back my damn phone, man! How come you never use your own phone for your brilliant schemes?”

Mac did exactly what Bozer ordered, straightening his long legs and climbing down from the table. He held Bozer’s phone out to him. “My battery wasn’t charged,” he replied.

Bozer simply narrowed his eyes and grabbed his phone back, walking ahead of Mac to toward the elevator, muttering slightly unintelligible complaints about genius best friends not using their superpowers for evil. Mac felt the side of his mouth pull up in an instinctive grin as he leaned against the back of the elevator wall and waited for Bozer to hit the right button.

He could feel anxiety rolling from Bozer as the elevator rose. The man radiated it like a beacon—and it wasn’t because of his phone, Mac knew.

The only reason Matty called them to the war room was if they had another mission. Bozer wasn’t stupid; he knew Mac was struggling. Mac had followed Jack’s guidance and found ways to kick his self-imposed insomnia… _somewhat_. He still woke up shouting, sweating buckets, feeling like the house was an inferno—the heat from that blast chasing him even into his dreams.

But, instead of sitting up, awake and brooding, he had started to retreat to the couch with the TV on watching PBS documentaries he used to watch as a kid—and therefore wouldn’t get interested in learning something new—until he could relax again. Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson lulled him into a semblance of rest, even if it wasn’t full-on sleep.

Bozer kept quiet about the number of mornings he’d come out to the kitchen to get his coffee and found Mac sprawled on the couch—peacefully snoring or restless with latent dreams. He let Mac do his thing to get past this latest hurdle. He’d been there since before Mac’s dad had left; he knew Mac’s coping mechanisms better that Mac did himself. And because of that, Mac knew the anxiety he was feeling emanate from his friend was because Bozer didn’t think Mac was ready for another mission.

Not yet.

The elevator door dinged and Bozer stepped out into the hall, not waiting for Mac. Following him, Mac had to admit he didn’t blame his friend for doubting. But…he was an Agent. This was his job.

Just like being an EOD tech had been his job when he was nineteen. Plenty of people had thought he wasn’t ready then, but Peña had trained him, guided him, watched over him. Bozer ducked into the opened door of the war room and Mac took a quick breath, trailing behind.

Because now he had Jack to watch his back. Jack…who would pick him over the whole damn world.

He was the last of the team to enter the room. Jack, Riley, and Cage were waiting, all standing near or sitting on the various piece of furniture in what Mac had come to see as their usual posts. Jack sat on the couch, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, his black wrist cuff blending with the black of his jeans. Riley perched on the back of the couch, her opened laptop at the ready. Cage stayed a bit separate from the group—a part of them, but disconnected as always—arms crossed over her chest, face impassive.

Bozer gravitated to Riley, standing near her elbow, his eyes on the large monitor across the room. Mac followed, dropping down on the opposite end of the couch from Jack. He instinctively caught the paperclip his partner tossed his way, not even thinking about the fact that Jack anticipated his need for grounding and normalcy by having a paperclip ready—since Matty had done away with the large bowl that typically sat in the center of the table.

The minute Matty Webber walked into the room, heading directly for the large monitor with her introduction to the latest crisis rolling off her tongue with practiced ease, Mac’s fingers began to manipulate the wire paperclip, his unconscious mind choosing the shape.

Matty tossed up several images on the screen, and Mac’s eyes darted across the board as it lit up, taking in every detail without truly registering that he was doing so, automatically searching for a pattern.

“Kosovo?” Jack chimed in. “Fabulous.”

“No one asked for your opinion, Jack,” Matty snapped back at him, clearly in no mood to entertain comments from the peanut gallery.

Mac began to immediately search his mental files for the latest information about the area they were headed into, filtering through everything he could remember regarding the Ottoman Empire, Serbia, and Albania.

“A war criminal named Bajram Rugova is planning to destroy a W.H.O. lab where they are developing vaccinations for the Lassa virus,” Matty continued.

“Wait, Rugova…,” Mac narrowed his eyes, sentences filtering up through his memory. “Wasn’t that the name of their President?”

He ignored the high-eyebrow glance he received from his partner.

Matty nodded, “Before they declared their independence from Serbia, yes, Ibrahim Rugova was the Kosovan President.” She frowned. “And that’s part of our problem. Bajram is his brother.”

“Well, that just makes me want to sit down to a family meal right there,” Jack interjected. Matty glared at him.

“So…, it sounds simple enough,” Cage stated mildly. She, too, ignored Jack’s high-eyebrow glance.

“What’s the catch?” Riley asked.

Mac nodded. There was always a catch.

“The lab is state of the art,” Matty informed them, with pictures to illustrate her point. “Rugova has a mole in the virology team who, according to our intel, has planted a bomb in the section of the lab where the virus is housed.”

“Wait, time-out…virus?” Jack frowned, holding up his hands in a ‘T’ shape. “Thought you said this place was developing a vaccine.”

Mac glanced over at his partner. “They need to virus to develop the vaccine,” he explained. “Part of any vaccine has a bit of live virus in it to help the body build up the antibodies against the virus—that’s why you always feel crappy after you get a flu shot.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “So, blowing up that portion of the lab would be…bad.”

“Very bad,” Mac looked back toward the images of the lab on the front monitor. “Lassa is a BSL-4 virus,” he paused when he saw Jack’s _English, dude_ head-tilt, “which means it’s known to cause hemorrhagic fever. Think…Ebola.”

“Awesome,” Jack muttered sarcastically, sitting back against the couch, arms crossing over his chest.

Mac nodded in agreement to the sarcasm. “It’s only airborne around rat fecal matter, though, and since this is a state-of-the-art facility, I doubt we’ll be seeing any rats.”

Matty opened her mouth to chime in when a thought occurred to Mac and he stood up, fingers working over the paperclip as he stared at the monitor.

“However, if the explosive devise they use is designed for maximum heat—rather than maximum destruction—it _could_ vaporize the virus and send it airborne,” Mac continued, his mind whirring through possible explosive ordinances. There was a strange weight on his chest; he resisted the urge to rub his sternum by twisting the paperclip faster. “Lassa has like a…twenty percent mortality rate. In Sierra Leone and Liberia it causes something like 5,000 deaths per year.”

“Where do you put all of this data in that brain of yours, brother?” Jack muttered, leaning forward once again to rub at his right ear.

Mac suppressed a wince when he caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. He hated that Jack was still troubled by the tinnitus from the last mission.

“Bottom line,” Matty’s voice was hard as she finally broke in. Mac glanced down at her, then around the room at the tense faces of his teammates. Retreating back to the couch, he waited for Matty to continue.

“Setting off the bomb could infect thousands, killing them before the vaccine can be developed and administered,” Matty said solemnly. “And to keep this fun, thanks to our new administration, political relations between the U.S. and Kosovo are…well, strained is not quite the word, but let’s just go with that.”

“So, technically, we’re not allowed to be there,” Cage concluded.

“And, if we’re caught…we’re disavowed,” Mac guessed.

Jack lifted a brow. “Again.”

The weight on Mac’s chest seemed to increase. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go—this was the job. Dismantling bombs. Saving people. But doing so under the radar added pressure to an already tense situation. Failure—even more so than usual—was not an option.

“You’re all very smart people,” Matty replied, with not a little bit of pride woven into the sarcasm. “Can I give you the mission parameters now, or would you like to guess those, too?”

Mac exchanged a side-eyes smirk with Jack; they could probably guess them at this point, but were willing to wait for their boss. Jack gave Matty a magnanimous sweep of his arm, encouraging her to go ahead.

“Riley, you’re here with me. I need you to override a few satellite connections and be our eyes and ears. Once the team is in Kosovo, communication is going to be critical.” Matty leveled her dark eyes at the young computer hacker, waiting for Riley’s nod of agreement. “Bozer,” Matty looked toward the newest member of the team. “You and Cage will pose as volunteer virologists to get access to the facility. The only intel we have is that the bomb was located in the section of the facility with the virus—but we haven’t been able to determine where that is, specifically.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jack interjected, seemingly not able to help himself. “The freaking _World Health Organization_ won’t cough up the location of a room for us?”

“That does seem strange,” Mac agreed.

Cage dropped her defensive posture and leaned against the wall. “No stranger than W.H.O. setting up a lab in an unstable country still periodically fighting for its independence to develop a vaccine for a virus that is prevalent an entire continent away.”

“You’re saying you don’t trust the intel?” Riley questioned, her voice hard with suspicion.

“I’m saying…I like to be sure what I’m walking into,” Cage replied coolly, shifting her gaze across Jack and Mac to Matty.

“Why the lab was set up there is not our problem,” Matty replied, matching Cage’s stare. “Keeping a maniac from infecting thousands of people with a deadly virus is. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Jack replied for all of them.

“Bozer.” Matty barked.

“Yes?” Bozer squeaked.

“Get on the disguises—something to keep you from being picked up on facial recognition scanners, but easy to maintain.”

“Copy that,” Bozer replied. “Two Mad-Lib prosthetic noses coming up.”

“Jack,” Matty squared off with the two men on the couch, “once Bozer and Cage identify the location, they will radio it to you and head to the exfil. You and Mac will go in under cover of night to find and dismantle the bomb, then get your asses home.”

“I’ll need some supplies,” Mac said, his mind actively filing away possible explosive ordinances they could encounter, the weight on his chest growing as each idea increased the death toll.

“Thought your thing was improv, Blondie,” Matty arched a brow at him.

Mac tilted his head. “When I get surprised by a bomb, sure,” he conceded, eyes still on the monitor, completely missing the daggers his partner stared at their boss. His voice lowered as it increased in intensity, “I could rig up a water disruptor or a pigstick. All we know is that it’s a bomb. It could be anything from an IED with shrapnel to a flux compression generator, but I can be prepared this time. I mean, since we’re sneaking in, I can’t bring my EOD suit, so Trepanation is probably going to be the best bet. It’s not as easy as you might think to build a compression chamber.”

Suddenly aware of the quiet in the room, Mac looked around at his team. Every one of them was staring at him with alternating expressions of amazement, amusement, and worry.

“What’d I say?” he asked innocently, trying to replay his words in his head.

Jack shook his head. “Y’know, sometimes I forget just how damn good you are at your job.”

Mac looked down, feeling his face heat up. “There’s just a lot of options….”

“We get it, Blondie,” Matty interrupted, but even her voice was gentler this time. “Supplies to take care of everything from IEDs to…flux capacitors.”

“Flux compression generators,” Mac corrected quietly.

“Wait, did _Matty Webber_ just make a joke?” Jack guffawed. “You did! And with pop culture, no less!”

“You all have work to do,” Matty snapped, but Mac saw her eyes sparkle with barely-suppressed humor. “Get out of my war room and get to it. You’re wheels up in one hour.”

As Bozer and Cage set out for the lab and their virologist disguises, Mac stood to follow Jack to the armory. He tossed the paperclip he’d been playing with onto the table, not looking at it. Jack’s eyes followed the sound and Mac saw his eyebrow bounce.

“You expecting to run into some coyotes on this mission, bud?”

Mac frowned. “No. Why?” He followed Jack’s eye line to table. He’d molded the paperclip into the shape of an anvil. This time he did reach up to rub at his chest, forcing himself to fill his lungs. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

Jack headed out of the room, tilting his head with a grin. “It was a little funny.”

When they reached the elevator, Mac melted back against the wall once more. He could breathe easier here with just Jack. He’d been aware of Riley’s reaction to being left behind and Bozer’s delight at being part of the mission, but he felt detached. Removed. As though he were watching the whole team from behind a pane of glass.

Everyone but Jack. Somehow his partner managed to get behind his walls and set up camp.

“Bozer’s gonna be okay,” Jack said in the quiet of the elevator, not quite looking at Mac. “Cage’ll watch his six.”

“I know he will,” Mac replied, dropping his head back to rest against the wall, eyes on the corner of the elevator ceiling, still mentally running through bomb disposal scenarios. “He’s ready for this.”

Jack hit the emergency stop on the elevator, startling Mac.

“Are _you_?”

Mac paused. He needed to keep Jack off the ‘guard the perimeter’ path he was clearly headed down, but every answer seemed barricaded by another image of a possible bomb they could encounter in Kosovo and he felt himself mentally choking on his words. He realized he was quiet a bit too long when Jack turned to face him—not reaching out, but clearly wanting to.

“Mac?”

“I…don’t know what I am,” he confessed, then took a breath and looked Jack squarely in the eye. “But I won’t let you down.”

“Brother, there isn’t a reality where that’s even a possibility,” Jack replied. “And I’d be lying if I said I could do this without you. But if you’re not ready—“

“I’m good, Jack,” Mac broke in, nodded as though he’d just then made the decision for those words to be true. “Honest. I’ve got this.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “M’kay.”

He turned back around and hit the emergency stop button once more, depositing them on the floor of the Phoenix Foundation that housed the armory. While Bozer and Cage got geared up in their scientist attire, Mac and Jack changed into black tactical gear, including a flack vest for each. Mac scrounged the armory for materials he thought he might need, small enough to fit in the pockets of his vest and pants while Jack stocked up on extra ammo for his rifle and handgun.

Within an hour, the four were on the Phoenix jet. Cage sequestered Bozer up front, giving him a crash course in lines to sell the idea that they were virologists while Bozer applied her makeup. Mac sat in the back, trying desperately to keep his leg from bouncing and keep his breathing even. He was so focused on appearing relaxed that he didn’t see Jack approach him until the man plunked down on the seat next to him, the weight of his stare almost physical.

“Talk to me, Mac,” Jack ordered softly. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Just thinking about the mission.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m not buying it. You look like you’re trying to figure out why a raven is like a writing desk.”

At that, Mac looked over at his friend, surprised. “You’ve read Lewis Carroll?”

“What? I can’t have layers?”

“No, I just…,” Mac blinked, drawn completely out of his reverie by his partner.

“There was a lot of extra time on some ops, man,” Jack explained, sitting back with his legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. “Some might say I’m the original Mad Hatter.”

Mac chuckled. “You’re not crazy enough.”

“I will be, I keep trying to riddle you out.”

Mac took a breath, rubbing his palm with the pad of his thumb. “I meant what I said before.”

“Can you be more specific?” Jack dropped his chin, his eyes finding Mac’s.

“I’ve got this mission; I won’t let you down,” Mac repeated. “But…I don’t know, lately? My head’s been all over.”

Jack simply nodded, waiting him out.

“I’ve been thinking about Harry.”

“Your granddad, Harry?” Jack shifted so that he had one leg bent on the seat and was facing Mac.

“When my dad took off, Harry just…he stepped in. Like it was no big thing, taking on a kid on his own.” Mac looked down at his hand, rubbing at the barely-healed bones. “And then…I think about _why_ my dad left. Because he _couldn’t_ handle taking on a kid on his own. It’s…kinda strange, the levels of chaos people can handle in their lives.”

Mac could feel his partner watching him and he braced himself for Jack to say that he could handle all kinds of chaos with his ‘ginormous brain’. He was weary of hearing that he could figure it out. He knew _how_ to improvise. He was just tired of always _having_ to.

“Back in the Sandbox, before I met you,” Jack started, looking away from Mac and into the middle distance, remembering. “I knew this guy. He was one of the best snipers I’d ever met. Could bulls-eye a womp rat in a T-16, know what I mean?”

Mac returned Jack’s grin.

“Anyway, after over two-hundred confirmed kills and twice that many lives saved, he suddenly couldn’t shoot. Just…couldn’t pull the trigger. It freaked him the hell out. There wasn’t anything physically wrong with him, but…he was still damaged.”

“PTSD?” Mac guessed.

Jack bounced his head in a nod. “That was the official diagnosis, but honestly, man? I think it just got to be too much. The expectation, the pressure. The fact that so many lives hung in the balance based on the accuracy of his aim.”

Mac’s brows pulled together in a frown of thought. “Sometimes the number doesn’t matter. Doesn’t have to be _so many_ lives. Could just be one.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “Could just be mine.”

Jack smiled and rubbed the top of Mac’s head affectionately, chuckling when Mac pulled away and smoothed his hair. “I’m not your dad, kid.”

“No,” Mac shook his head, staring at Jack with too many thoughts swirling to pin down just one. “No, you’re not.” He ignored the way Jack’s smile wavered uncertainly for a moment, lifting his chin with a fragile smile. “I get it, Jack. Don’t let it get to be too much.”

“Don’t take it on _alone_ , Mac,” Jack course-corrected. “You’re not on overwatch alone. You’ve got a spotter. You’ve got a team.”

Mac nodded, then turned away from his partner focusing on the descent of the plane and being ready for the next step. Once on the ground, they had to split up—Bozer and Cage heading to the meeting point for the scientists and Jack and Mac repurposing a vehicle to get them to the lab without being seen. Mac kept his farewell to his childhood friend short.

“You got this, Bozer. You’re gonna be great.”

“Is that code for, _don’t get dead_?” Bozer joked, smoothing down his fake mustache.

Mac grinned and held out his fist. “Just like Beggar’s Canyon back home,” he joked.

Bozer bounced his fist against Mac’s, laughing. “I guess I should be glad it wasn’t a _Die Hard_ quote.”

Comms would be down between the team until Cage and Bozer were at the lab; Mac and Jack were connected to the Phoenix, but as far as Mac was concerned, they were dark for almost too long of a stretch. A scarf wrapped around his neck and the lower half of his face and a cap covering his blond hair, Mac followed his similarly-dressed partner at a low run toward a stretch of burned-out buildings near the abandoned airstrip where they’d touched down.

“Come out to the coast, grab a car, we’ll have a few laughs,” Jack mocked in a slightly breathless, sing-song voice. “No big thing.”

“Thought you’d like that grand theft auto was actually sanctioned by Phoenix,” Mac chuckled, one hand on Jack’s shoulder as he crouched behind his partner, their bodies pressed close to a dilapidated brick building.

“Yeah, that’s not so bad.” Jack tossed a grin over his shoulder. “I see one. The little pick-up truck-looking thing to my nine-o’clock. Four tires and everything.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll drive,” Jack said, waiting until Mac tapped his shoulder once that he was ready, and took off down the dusty street.

Once in the truck, Mac turned on the GPS in his phone and they made their way to an alcove of trees near the outer perimeter of the W.H.O. lab where they had nothing to do but wait until dark. They connected comms with Riley, ensuring they could hear everything going on with their teammates, then settled back into the shadows.

The quiet of the truck cab in the eerie gray-blue light of the afternoon seemed to press down on Mac, sending his mind spinning through an endless trajectory of possibilities. Bozer would accidentally locate the bomb and trigger it before Mac could even get into the building. Bozer and Cage would be captured and executed before they could worry about being disavowed. Jack would be shot breaking into the facility. Mac wouldn’t be able to find the bomb. Mac wouldn’t be able to disarm the bomb.

Each possibility came with its own set of options, spider-webbing into a massive decision tree in Mac’s mind. He didn’t realize his breath was stuttering until he felt Jack’s hand rest, heavy and reassuring, on his forearm. Swallowing, Mac looked down at his partners glove-covered fingers, focusing on the strength he felt even in that light grip, and willed himself not to look over at Jack.

The minute he did, he’d see the worry in his partner’s brown eyes and he wasn’t sure he could deal with that right now. As though sensing Mac’s tension, Riley spoke up through the comms, immediately distracting him.

 _“Hey, Mac_. _You listen to that Greenskeepers album I shared on Spotify?”_

“Yeah,” Mac nodded, shifting his eyes on the perimeter fence around the facility. “You were right. I liked it.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Jack grumbled, lowering the binoculars he’d been peering through toward the edge of the lab fence line.

“Music,” they replied in unison.

“Naw, _music_ is played by actual _people_ ,” Jack teased.

Mac glanced at him, a half-grin on his lips. “Says the man whose favorite T-shirt says _Metallica_ on it.”

 _“Yeah, Jack,”_ Riley chimed in. _“I bet you can’t name a band that started_ after _we were born.”_

“Sure, I can,” Jack replied, frowning. “Nirvana.”

“Sorry, Jack,” Mac grinned, looking back toward the lab’s perimeter. “Nirvana started in ’87.”

“Pearl Jam?”

“Nope. They were ’90.” Mac chuckled.

“Damn Millenials,” Jack groused. “You’re missing out on all the _good_ music from my generation.”

“Hey, I listen to the classics,” Mac teased. His grin grew wider at the sound of Riley’s laugh through the comms.

“Classics!” Jack choked. “How many of your…your Greensleeves—“

“Greenskeepers,” they corrected, again in unison.

“Whatever,” Jack waved a dismissive hand. “How many of them do you think are still going to be filling stadiums and rocking out twenty years from now?”

Mac chuckled as Riley continued to poke at Jack about everything from his taste in music to his clothing attire, thinking about how much he needed this. A sense of routine. The calm before the storm. A reminder that not every mission was like Argentina.

The thing about life, Mac knew, was that while it was lived linearly, it was remembered in a tangle of moments. Images and sensations roll around each other until time no longer stretched out behind in an endless highway of events, but instead curled up around instances of clarity, shaping a person through perception rather than reality.

He needed _this_ to be his perception—Jack’s grin, Riley’s teasing, the calm confidence that they would succeed permeating the run-down, appropriated vehicle. A glance askance at his partner told him that Jack felt it, too. It was a little scary sometimes how well Jack knew him. How much he _needed_ Jack to know him.

How much he needed Jack, period. He wasn’t quite sure when his partner became the definition of balance to him. Before Nikki. Before DXS. Maybe back in the war. All he knew was that he wouldn’t be able to move forward without Jack in his life.

Not that he’d say as much to the older man. No need to give him more ammunition.

The banter between his teammates quieted as they all listened to Bozer and Cage sell their volunteer status and make their way into the lab. Mac tensed as Bozer tried a bit too hard at one point, but his blunder was covered smoothly by Cage. The afternoon seemed to shrink time and before he was ready, the light began to thin, the air cooling as the sun slipped west and stretched along the horizon.

“Okay, that’s the signal,” Jack said quietly as they listen to Cage. “She’s marked the door for us to get in.”

Mac raised the infrared binoculars. “Roger that. Target marked.”

“Riley?”

 _“Standing by to cut security as soon as Cage and Bozer are clear,”_ Riley confirmed.

They waited several more minutes and then Mac heard Bozer in his ear.

_“Mac?”_

“I’m here, man. You good?”

_“That was a rush!”_

“I was listening,” Mac grinned. “You were awesome.”

 _“Okay, cut the chatter, besties,”_ Matty’s voice suddenly broke in. _“Bozer, did you find the lab?”_

 _“Yeah, it’s on the third floor,”_ he said, calling out directions from the door Cage had marked.

Mac exchanged a look with Jack, confirming that they both had followed. “We got it, Matty.” He repositioned his black cap to cover his blond hair and waited until Jack had loaded and checked both of his weapons before exiting the truck. “Jack and I are on the move,” he reported. “Cage? You and Bozer get to the exfil, copy?”

 _“Copy,”_ Cage replied, slightly breathless as she and Bozer continued their exit.

As the security lights around the perimeter of the lab switched on, Mac and Jack skirted back to the shadows. Clearing the now-disarmed chain link fence surrounding the building was simple. Mac kept in sync with Jack’s movements—one hand on Jack’s shoulder as they circled the side of the building. He tapped once to get Jack to cover his six as he shorted out the keypad using his Swiss Army knife and a copper wire he’d stashed in his TAC gear. In moments, they’d slipped inside the building. The hallway was dark—motion detection lights having been shut down by Riley’s hack. Both MacGyver and Jack flicked on the blue-hued LED light affixed to their gear.

Mac swiveled to check out the wall sign.

“How’s your Serbian?” Mac asked his partner.

“Probably about as good as your Klingon,” Jack retorted. “Riley, we could use some help here.”

 _“Okay, guys,”_ Riley’s voice hummed through their comms. _“There is a stairwell about eight feet to your south.”_

Mac moved down the hallway until he found a door with a common image for stairwell on it. “Got it.”

_“You need to go up three flights—I’ll guide you when you’re there.”_

They headed up silently, the sound of well-conditioned breaths echoing in the empty stairwell. As Jack took the turn on the last flight before the door on the third floor, they heard Riley curse. Mac stopped in his tracks, his vest light finding Jack’s frozen figure in the dark.

“What is it?” Jack demanded.

 _“Cage and Bozer didn’t make it back to the exfil,”_ Riley reported. Mac felt himself go cold, his fingers tightening their grip on the stairwell railing. _“Looks like there have been a few security breaches and the local police picked them up at a random check-point.”_

“Who do they think they are?” Mac asked, heart pounding as he thought of Bozer dealing with being disavowed and left behind in Kosovo.

 _“Spies,”_ Riley replied, _“from a competing drug company.”_

Mac exhaled and heard Jack do the same.

“So, what’s that mean?”

 _“Means Cage is going to have to remember her CIA training and save their asses,”_ Matty’s voice interjected. _“But you’ve got bigger concerns.”_

“Such as?” Jack pressed.

 _“Additional security was sent to the lab to verify there wasn’t a breach,”_ Matty informed them, _“and there’s no way to determine who is in league with Rugova.”_

“So…everyone is an enemy, but we can’t kill them,” Jack replied, leveling his eyes on Mac. “That it?”

 _“Get it done, Jack.”_ Matty’s voice seemed to compress, the tone brittle with frustration.

Mac sighed, and they continued up to the third floor. As they opened the door, emergency lights kicked on, illuminating the hallway in a dusky yellow glow. They ducked back into the darkened stairwell.

 _“Uh, guys?”_ Riley called to them. _“You’re gonna have company. Like…now.”_

“We picked up on that, Ri,” Jack replied. “Any idea how many?”

_“Looks like…a lot.”_

“Well, that’s specific,” Mac muttered, cracking the door to peek out. “How far away is the lab?”

_“Ten feet north of you is a hall to the west, then it’s another thirty feet or so.”_

“Couldn’t have found a stairway any further away, could you?”

_“Hey, I didn’t build the damn place.”_

“All right,” Mac broke in. “Let’s just do this. Riley—keep us posted on Bozer and Cage, yeah?”

 _“You got it, Mac,”_ Riley replied.

Jack pulled his Glock and nodded at Mac. They flicked off their LED lights and made their way into the hallway, moving as quickly as possible. Before they got five feet from the stairway, however, the elevator dinged.

“Shit,” Mac muttered, grabbing Jack by the shoulder and shoving him into an opened office door just as several men in uniform spilled out of the elevator.

Almost immediately, a hail of bullets splattered against the wall.

“I think they saw us,” Jack muttered, shoving an office chair over as cover and ducking behind it before returning fire.

Mac began to search the office for anything he could cobble together to help Jack. “Careful where you shoot, Jack,” he called over his shoulders. “Most of these guys are just doing their job. We’re the intruders here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind while I try not to get my damn head blown off,” Jack growled.

Digging through desk drawers, Mac came up with a can of compressed air—typically used to clean out keyboards—a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches, a lighter, and a roll of duct tape. Thinking quickly, he ran back to Jack, scrambling to put the finishing touches on a make-shift flash-bang grenade. After tearing off the length of tape he needed, he slapped the roll of duct tape against Jack’s chest.

“Hang onto that for me,” he ordered.

“What are you—wait, don’t tell me,” Jack waved the duct tape at Mac. “Turns out I like being surprised.”

“When I throw this,” Mac said, holding up the can, “we have to be ready to run.”

“Roger that,” Jack nodded.

“Also,” Mac winced. “It’s going to be loud, so…sorry about the tinnitus.”

“Son of a….”

Mirroring Jack’s crouched posture, Mac lit the match and threw the flash-bang, effectively clearing a path through the guards as they ducked and grabbed their ears in surprise and pain. Grabbing Jack by the flack vest, Mac ran them down the hall to where they were to turn left, only to have another cadre of guards headed their way. This time it was Jack who shoved Mac into an office, using a desk to barricade them and pulling his rifle free.

“We’re getting nowhere fast, brother,” Jack hollered, rubbing at his ear with the base of his palm.

“Riley,” Mac called, “is there another way into that lab?”

 _“I’m looking,”_ she replied.

Jack fired back at the guards who were clearly intent on ventilating the room they were in with bullet holes. Mac saw one guard go down, grabbing his knee when Jack fired over top of the desk.

“Look faster, Ri,” Jack called.

_“Okay, there’s a security door at the back of the office you’re in—see it?”_

Mac searched through the dim yellow light and saw the door she was referring to.

_“You can get to the lab from the opposite direction, just a few more turns.”_

“Jack!” Mac called, heading toward the door.

“You go,” Jack shouted, firing over the barricade to punctuate his statement. “I’ll hold them off for you.”

“What?” Mac dropped down next to his partner. “No. No way. I’m not leaving you here.”

Jack looked over at him. “Bud, of the two of us, which one actually knows something about bombs? That’s right, _you_ , thank you very much.” Mac frowned, opening his mouth to argue again, but Jack cut him off by grabbing the front of his vest and shoving lightly. “Get your ass over there, get rid of that damn thing, and let’s get the hell out of Dodge!”

“Fine, but you stay alive, got it?”

“That’s the plan.” Jack turned away from Mac, taking out another guard at the knee.

Mac took off through the security door and followed Riley’s directions to the lab. He skidding to a stop when he reached it, however, pulling his dark cap from his hair and unwinding his scarf to grab a full breath. The room was entirely cased in thick Plexiglas—bulletproof and air-tight, according to Riley.

There would be no hiding from the guards while he located and disarmed the bomb.

“I’ll just have to…work quickly,” Mac muttered to himself.

He darted into the room and turned in a full circle, eyes scanning every piece of equipment and furniture, trying to determine where a bomb could be hidden. It was set up not unlike the lab in Phoenix, just half the size. Tables with rolling chairs, cabinets and autoclaves, multiple vials, glass cabinets, and beakers. With an air-tight room, for the bomb to work it would need to be exceptionally powerful and more incendiary than explosive so that it would send the virus airborne.

This was more than a lab—it was a clean room. Everything around him was pristine, white, glass, or metal, and looked like it belonged there.

Frustrated, MacGyver shoved a hand through his hair, then unfastened his flack vest and pulled it free, dropping it to the floor before going to the far counter and starting to systematically search the room. Before he got far, two men burst into the room with twin shouts of surprise. Mac jerked, startled, and turned to face them.

“I don’t suppose you guys are here to help me?” Mac tried, a hollow smile ghosting his lips.

Both men were dressed in black, similar to MacGyver himself, with dark hair slicked back from their faces. Their dual scowls spoke volumes about their intent and when the taller of the two stepped toward him, Mac took an involuntary step back. Riley had buffered his comms so that the sound of the on-going gun battle did not distract him outside of the clean room, but he knew Jack could hear him loud and clear.

“Look…we don’t have to do this,” Mac started. “How about we all just walk out of here…after I disarm a bomb?”

The tall man was either not amused, or had no idea what Mac was saying, because he didn’t even slow his approach. Mac dropped into a defensive stance as the man attacked, blocking what would have been a concussion-inducing hit with his forearm and landing a blow to the man’s midsection.

It was like hitting a brick wall.

Mac grunted and looked up at the man’s dark eyes in surprise. The man ducked his second swing, using Mac’s own momentum to propel him off-balance, then slamming his fist into Mac’s kidneys.

“Ahhh!” Mac cried out, arching back helplessly with pain, then twisting around and—finally—landing a punch on the taller man’s chin.

It was like the opening salvo of a firefight. Suddenly Mac was moving instinctively, punching, blocking, and dodging. He rolled with one punch only to return another. He’d completely lost track of the second man; his whole world was centered on not letting the taller man pound him into the ground.

The man wore multiple rings on his right hand; Mac’s quick eyes took in the detail just before a bone-jarring punch across his cheek split his skin and sent him staggering backwards, dazed. Before his could shake off the hit, the man picked him up and threw him into one of the glass cabinets, shattering the vials within.

 _“Jack!”_ He heard Riley call out in his comms, the line once more open. _“You need to get to the lab.”_

 _“I’m kinda busy here, Ri,”_ Jack snapped as Mac scrambled from the mess of glass and tried to dodge a particularly vicious hit, the muscles along his back straining with the effort of keeping his legs under him. _“Unless you got some way to clear a path?”_

Distracted for a moment by the sound of Jack’s struggle and immediately thinking how Riley might put down some kind of suppression for Jack to escape the barricaded office, Mac didn’t see the tall man’s left hand come up until it was latched onto the front of his shirt, tugging Mac forward and flinging him across the room to crash against another glass cabinet, vials and beakers cascading down around him in a hail of glass.

“Dammit,” Mac muttered, pushing to his feet, breathing hard.

He could feel blood running down the side of his face from where one of the man’s punches had opened up a scar from the last mission. He wiped at it distractedly, eyes darting around the big man to see his smaller companion bent over what looked like a small freezer.

It took him two seconds to realize that the man was moving aside trays of vials from the freezer—and that the only reason to do so was if he were trying to reach something below them. Like a bomb.

“Son of a bitch!” Mac launched toward the smaller man, but was caught mid-stride by the taller man’s fist crashing against his ribs. The force of the blow sent air _whooshing_ from his lungs and he felt something sharp in his side as he stumbled forward, coughing.

The big man took a step back to gain momentum and Mac saw light glint off of a red-tinged blade of glass, just long enough to be a shiv, clutching in the man’s meaty fist. His hand went to his side and he pulled his fingers away, stunned to see blood there.

“That’s just not fair,” he muttered, then ducked as the big man swung at him again, stumbling back and crashing against the Plexiglas wall.

 _“Mac!”_ Jack called through his comms, but Mac didn’t have enough air at the moment to reassure his partner.

He pushed to his feet, grabbing one of the rolling chairs and shoving it at the taller man, trying to keep him away. His feet crunched against the broken glass as he backed away from the man’s attack. Out of pure desperation, Mac began to grab anything he could get his hands on from the lab counter and started throwing it at the tall man. Everything from beakers to staplers were batted away as the man continued to advance.

Just then, Mac’s hand closed around a container of a cloudy liquid, the label reading NaOH. As the tall man lunged at him, Mac ripped the cap free and threw the contents in the man’s face, stepping back as the man screamed, clawing at his eyes in agony. Using the man’s distraction to his advantage, Mac picked up a book from the lab counter and slammed it down on the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.

Gasping for breath, his side burning, Mac fumbled for his flack vest, keeping one eye on the other man intent on his work inside the freezer full of vials, and grabbed several zip ties. Once the first man was incapacitated, Mac headed for the second, only to pull up short when the smaller man turned around, a knife in his hand.

“Jack?” Mac called, surprised at the raspy sound of his own voice. “Where the hell are you?”

 _“Trying to get to you, bud,”_ Jack replied, sounding winded himself. _“Ran into some old friends. You know how it is.”_

Mac offered the other man a small smile and held his hands up in a mock surrender. As the smaller man stepped forward, Mac kicked upwards with his right leg, knocking the knife from the man’s grip, and then stepped forward, clapped both hands hard against the man’s ears, sending him stumbling back. Gasping in pain, a hand pressed to his side, Mac staggered forward, trying to steady himself as the room swayed around him.

 _“Mac, I got the cameras in the lab,”_ Riley said suddenly. _“I see you.”_

“Great,” Mac gasped, dropping his hand from his side, trying not to look too closely at the amount of blood on his fingers. “Can you see inside that freezer thing behind this guy?”

 _“No,”_ Riley sounded disappointed. _“The camera is in the corner—it’s the wrong angle.”_

The smaller man started to advance toward MacGyver, his hands out, actually waving Mac forward.

 _“Did he just do the ‘come at me, bro’ signal?”_ Riley asked, incredulous.

“Sure looked like it,” Mac muttered, his gaze darting around the other side of the room, near the freezer. His eyes blurred for a moment and he felt a strange pressure on his chest as he tried to draw in a breath. He needed to end this whole thing soon or he was going to be in serious trouble. “Probably shouldn’t disappoint him.”

_“Mac, what are you— “_

He didn’t let Riley finish her question. Faking a lunge to the left, Mac quickly jerked to the right, darting around the smaller man, and grabbing a small fire extinguisher from the wall. Before the smaller man could recover, Mac pulled the pin and fired the suppressive foam at the man’s face, causing him to stagger back with a shout of pain and surprise as he fell across the legs of his comrade.

“That’s two….” Mac muttered, dropping the fire extinguisher, and pressing a hand against his side.

His breath was coming in shallow, quick gasps; it was getting really hard to take a deep breath. He was oddly light-headed. He didn’t think he was bleeding that much, but he needed to move quickly if he wanted to get some help. He’d used all of his zip ties on the first guy, so he decided to take the smaller man’s belt from him and secure him to his friend to keep him out of the way.

“Stay,” Mac said, patting the man’s head as he turned back toward the freezer.

He knew what he was going to see before he leaned over the edge, but it was still a jolt to see the bottom of the freezer covered with C4, the detonator secured in the middle with several complicated-looking wires stretching from the center out through the plastique and the edge of the freezer. They had turned the entire unit into the bomb; it wasn’t going to be a simple matter of pulling the device free and getting it out of the building.

If Mac hadn’t been there, he was sure the next step would have been to cover the bomb with the trays full of vials, which no doubt contained the virus.

“Well, damn,” he exhaled.

 _“That doesn’t sound good.”_ Riley’s voice in his ear made him jump.

“I found the bomb,” Mac reported. His mouth was dry, his hands trembled. This was a big-assed bomb and it was going to be a big-assed problem.

As if they had simply been waiting in the wings of his memory, Mac immediately recalled Peña’s words: _The best way to beat a problem is to make it work for you._

 _“I take it there’s no getting it out of the building?”_ Riley asked.

“Nope,” Mac replied, leaning over to get a closer look. The movement shot a lightning bolt of pain through his side and he cried out, pressing his hand to his side, reflexively.

_“Mac?”_

“’m okay,” he breathed, leaning against the freezer a moment to catch his breath.

 _“Is that…blood?”_ Riley asked, her voice sounding thin in Mac’s comms.

 _“Blood! Whose blood?”_ Jack suddenly chimed in.

“I’m fine,” Mac repeated, this time a bit stronger.

But he knew it was a lie. The pressure in his chest said so. He was in trouble and if he didn’t disarm this bomb soon, he was going to get his partner and a whole lot of other people killed.

“Think, Mac,” he breathed, eyes skimming the mechanism deep in the freezer.

He couldn’t get a good look at it with the dim emergency lights. Moving over to his flack vest, he flicked on the LED light and hung the vest on the opened lid of the freezer, the bright blue-white light shining into the interior.

 _“Mac, turn on the camera on your vest,”_ Matty ordered.

Mac did as requested, unsure if they were seeing his face or directly into the freezer at the bomb.

 _“Does that look as scary to you as it does to me?”_ Riley asked.

He decided to go with the bomb being on camera.

“It’s not good,” Mac said, hearing the wheeze in his voice. “But if I can gather a few things here and use some of the stuff I brought with me,” he started looking around the lab again, “we can use Trepanation.”

 _“Okay…?”_ Riley’s tone spoke of doubt and trust at once.

Mac stumbled away from the freezer, skimming the stainless steel refrigerated containers to see what liquids were stored inside. “I need some kind of acid…. If I can bore a hole through the sidewall of the detonator, I can maybe render it useless by pouring acid inside— “

_“Mac!”_

He jerked around at the sound of Riley’s fear. “What?”

_“The timer!”_

There hadn’t been a timer before; he was sure of it. The bomb had been inert. He hurried back to the freezer and looked inside to find the red digital numbers mocking him. 29:47. He had thirty minutes.

Before he could do anything but gape, the clean room lit up—the emergency lights giving way to bright, overhead lights—and the door Mac had entered slid shut, effectively cutting off the sound of Riley calling his name. Mac moved to the door, tugging on the handle, then slapped the flat of his hand against the glass.

“Protective measures,” a voice behind him called out in halting, broken English. “Bomb is triggered, room is locked.”

Mac turned around, staring at the smaller of the two men still tied up in the corner of the room. In his hand he held what looked like a small cigarette lighter. A trigger. That had been what he was up to—the bomb was already planted, but the worry of corporate spies and the resulting increased security had stepped up their timeline and now the bomb had a trigger.

And was counting down.

“What good does that do?” Mac countered. “If the bomb goes off in the clean room, you don’t get to kill thousands of people.”

The man looked up and Mac followed his eye line.

“Ventilation system,” the man informed him. “Goes to village.”

“You son of a bitch,” Mac stumbled forward, his side pulling him up short with a stab of pain.

Before he could take more than two steps, the man with the trigger began to shudder and shake, white froth spilling from his mouth, his eyes bugging from his head. He was dead before Mac was able to catch his breath.

“Jack!” Mac called. He was met by silence. Pressing his hand to his ear to hopefully activate his comm, he tried again. “Jack?” Nothing. “Riley? Matty?”

Silence. He was alone.

And the bomb was counting down.

* * *

_-Jack-_

Keeping a steady hand and taking out attacking forces without actually killing them was not as easy as it might seem—especially with the increasingly anxious voices in his ear distracting him. For a bit after Mac found the clean room in the lab, Jack was tempted to tell Riley to cut comms until he could get his way clear.

Until the panic in Riley’s voice cut through senses dazed by flash-bombs and firefights.

_“Jack—you need to get to the lab.”_

Yeah, well, he was trying to, dammit. Not like he was taking out these guys with non-lethal force for the hell of it.

After demanding Riley find a way to clear a path, Jack tuned in to Mac’s comm, trying to find some kind of reassurance in his partner’s voice that they were still on track.

 _“That’s just not fair,”_ Mac’s voice came through, strained and pain-filled.

“Mac!” Jack shouted, needing to know the kid was still on mission. When he didn’t receive an answer, he shifted comms to Riley. “Ri, you need to get me out of this damn room.”

 _“I’m trying to,”_ she muttered.

“No pressure, kiddo, but…try harder.” He dropped his rifle and reloaded his Glock, but before he could raise it to fire one of the guards burst through the room, launching himself over the desk barricade. Jack caught him mid-leap.

The ensuing fist-fight was short but brutal and Jack staggered to his feet, winded.

 _“Jack, I’ve hacked into their fire suppression system,”_ Riley told him.

“Nice!”

 _“Yes…and no,”_ Riley informed him reluctantly. _“You are, uh…you’re gonna need to hold your breath. For…a while.”_

“Just get me to Mac.” Jack raised his Glock and tensed, ready to run.

 _“’K…when I tell you, take a deep breath and just…do exactly what I say,”_ Riley ordered.

“You’re the boss,” Jack replied, then frowned. “Don’t tell Matty I said that, though.”

 _“She heard you,”_ Matty replied, sardonically.

_“Jack?”_

“Ready.”

_“Now!”_

Jack filled his lungs and flinched when a substance that appeared like thick smoke was forcefully ejected from the ceiling suppression system.

 _“Jack, go through the security door now!”_ Riley ordered.

Spurned by the urgency in her voice, Jack ran through the security door, then jerked in surprise when a steel fire door slammed shut behind him.

 _“Go straight—move, move, move,”_ Riley barked.

Jack ran, hearing another fire door seal off the hall behind him.

_“Turn right—now!”_

Three turns later, Jack was in a portion of the facility illuminated by flashing emergency lights, sagging against the wall, and catching his breath. He had no idea where he was in relation to MacGyver, but at least he’d lost the guards.

 _“Jack,”_ Mac’s voice came through the comms, startling Jack both with the unexpected change from Riley and the thin rasp in the kid’s tone. _“Where the hell are you?”_

“Trying to get to you, bud,” Jack replied, still catching his breath, needing Mac to know he wasn’t alone in this. “Ran into some old friends. You know how it is.”

He could tell Mac was fighting someone—multiple someones, by the sound of it—and the kid was hurting, but he also knew MacGyver was a trained agent and could hold his own. He followed Matty’s directions through the labyrinth of the facility while Riley kept on comms with Mac, almost daring to feel fairly confident they were getting the upper hand on this mission until he heard one word: _blood_.

“Blood! Whose blood?”

 _“I’m fine.”_ Mac’s voice had taken on a familiar edge, one that Jack knew well. He wasn’t fine, that much was certain, but he also knew he had a job to do, blood or no blood.

 _“You’re almost there, Jack,”_ Matty reassured him.

Jack nodded, even though he knew no one could see him.

 _“Mac!”_ Riley’s panicked voice caused Jack to jerk to a stop.

 _“What?”_ Mac sounded winded, spacey. Jack did not like this one bit.

_“The timer!”_

Jack held his breath, waiting for Mac’s reply. Two heartbeats. Three. Four.

_“Mac! MAC!”_

“Riley?” He barked.

_“Jack, get to the lab, now!”_

Matty’s voice galvanized him into action. He was running almost blindly, following open hallways and blinking emergency lights until he rounded a corner, skidding to a halt at the sight of an all-glass room. Training kicking in, Jack took stock of the situation in seconds. Two bad guys down, one clearly dead, based on the vacant eyes and crusted foam at the corners of his mouth. Mac standing in front of what looked like a giant copy machine, listing to one side, a hand gripping the edge of the opened container, his back to Jack.

“Riley!” Jack barked again. “Sitrep, now!”

 _“The…uh, the bomb was…it looks like one of those guys triggered a timer,”_ Riley’s voice shook through the comms.

“Mac!” Jack called, one hand at his ear as the tinnitus suppressed the sound of the comms for a moment. He moved around to the glass door—apparently the only entrance to the clean room. “MAC!”

The younger agent didn’t flinch, his full concentration focused on the interior of the unit he was leaning against. Jack didn’t like the look of his partner one bit: in the harsh glare of the overhead lighting, Mac was pale, sweaty, and visibly trembling. There was blood on his face from new and re-opened cuts.

 _“…off our comms,”_ Riley’s voice came through as the high-pitched beep in his ear finally ended.

“Say again?” Jack demanded, one hand at his ear.

 _“When the bomb was triggered, it set off some kind of emergency security measure,”_ Riley said, her voice steadying as she spoke. _“It shut down the room and cut off our comms. We can’t hear Mac and he can’t hear us.”_

Jack felt his pulse press behind his eyes.

“Get this door opened,” he ordered.

 _“I’m trying,”_ Riley replied, then cut in before Jack could say anything, _“and I swear to God if you tell me to try harder I will slash your Telly Savalas picture.”_

Jack curled a hand into a fist, forcing himself to take a calming breath.

 _“I can see in there, though,”_ Riley continued. _“Two cams—one on the vest Mac hung on the lid of that freezer unit, the other in the corner behind him.”_

“How bad’s he hurt?” Jack asked, still not yet approaching the door.

On instinct, he’d mentally shifted to his Delta training. A soldier in his unit was severely compromised and in enemy territory. He didn’t want to distract Mac until he absolutely had to.

 _“I can’t see the wound, but it looks like it was a hit to his side when he fought those two you see on the floor in the back,”_ Matty replied. _“From the vest cam we can see…beginning stages of shock, probably due to blood loss, and definite shortness of breath.”_

“What’s he doing to the bomb?”

 _“He said something about using acid to neutralize it, but right now he’s got an electric screwdriver and some kind of copper wire and is trying to access something in the unit that’s kinda…buried in a shit-ton of plastique,”_ Riley described.

“Hands shaking?”

_“Definitely.”_

“Timer reading?”

_“27:32.”_

Jack took a breath and approached the door. When Mac didn’t look up, he gently pounded on the glass. Mac flinched and pushed himself upright, eyes tracking quickly to the door. The relief on Mac’s face when he registered who it was came close to breaking Jack’s heart.

“Oh, kid,” Jack breathed, then lifted his chin and painted a cocky grin across his face. “You about done?” He shouted, over-enunciating the words.

Mac blinked rapidly, using the back of his wrist to wipe the sweat from his eyes, smearing the blood across his forehead. Jack could see his Swiss Army knife clutched in his left hand, blood staining his fingers. He shook his head, then held up his hand for Jack to wait as he ducked his head back into the unit.

“Riley, what’s the story on this door?”

 _“They were triggered when the threat was detected,”_ she replied. _“I’m working on rerouting the security to gain control, but…easy answer to getting in there is letting him disarm the bomb.”_

“Bomb is neutralized, doors open?” Jack asked.

_“Looks like.”_

“Can you see what he’s doing?”

 _“See it? Yes. Explain it? No way.”_ Riley muttered. _“Wait…wait…he’s pulling a wire free. I think—the timer’s out! It went out!”_

Jack held his breath, watching Mac sag against the machine, a hand pressed to his right side.

“Uh…Riley? If the timer’s out, then why aren’t these doors opening?”

 _“How the hell should I know?”_ Riley snapped.

Jack pounded gently on the door again, drawing Mac’s eyes.

 _“Oh, shit,”_ Riley breathed.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Jack replied putting a hand to his ear. Something in his expression signaled Mac and the kid looked back down into the freezer unit, his face losing what little color it had.

 _“Timer’s back on,”_ Riley said, sounding close to tears. _“26:02.”_

Mac leaned heavily against the unit, his head hanging low. Jack could see him working to pull in shallow breaths. Pushing away from the unit, Mac crossed to the door where Jack stood, leaning against the filing cabinet that lined up with the entry way. For a moment, the two men simply stared at each other, Jack’s heartbeat painfully recording the sight of Mac’s blue-tinged lips, parted to make it easier to breathe.

Mac glanced around briefly, and Jack frowned, puzzled, until the younger man’s shoulders shifted in a sigh and he pulled his hand away from his side, using his blood-slicked fingers to write _bk up_ on the glass door separating them.

Backwards, of course. So that it was clear to Jack. The brainiac.

“There’s a back-up trigger?” Jack shouted, watching as Mac’s eyes clung to his mouth, reading his lips.

Mac nodded tiredly, pressing his free hand on the door frame, supporting himself.

Jack pounded a frustrated fist against the glass. “I’m getting you out of there.”

Mac shook his head slowly, pressing his hand to his side once more, then wrote _2 mny ple ded_.

“You before the world, man. I told you.”

Mac shook his head again and moved as though to argue his point when a ripple of pain folded his brows into a frown and he pressed his hand to his side once more, his knees buckling. Lacking the strength to catch himself, he slumped against the cabinet and slid to the floor, one shoulder leaning against the glass door, legs akimbo. His head dropped back against the cabinet, his lips parted as he worked to drag in shallow gasps for air.

“Son of a bitch,” Jack muttered, going to his knees so that he was eye-level with his partner.

 _“Jack, it’s Cage,”_ came a new voice through his comms. Jack pressed his hand against his ear, listening as he kept his eyes on Mac. _“Bozer and I are at the exfil point, in the jet. We can see inside the room.”_

“That’s swell, Cage, but I’m kind of dealing with something right now.” Jack shot back.

Unruffled by Jack’s irritation, Cage continued. _“From what I can see, Mac’s dealing with a pneumothorax—probably due to a stab wound, based on the blood. He needs a thoracotomy in the next few minutes or he’s not going to make it.”_

 _“Hate to tell you both this,”_ Matty broke in, _“But if we don’t diffuse this bomb in the next few minutes, a collapsed lung is the least of Mac’s worries.”_

Jack pressed his shoulder against the glass door, the motion drawing Mac’s attention.

“Dammit, kid,” Jack cursed as the sight of Mac visibly fighting to breathe ripped a hole in him. The younger man’s irises were the same neon blue Jack remembered from that day in the rain, only this time they were from tears. “Jesus, Riley, I need you to _do something_.”

 _“I’m trying,”_ Riley replied, emotion choking her voice.

 _“If you can get him to the exfil, I can help,”_ Cage informed him. _“I’ve dealt with this before.”_

“No offense, but that does fuck-all for me at the moment, Cage,” Jack snapped. He took a shuddering breath. “I need to know what to do, _now_.”

Mac blinked, his eyes pinned to Jack, and the tears that had been balanced on his lashes tripped down his cheeks, blending with the blood on his face.

“How much time, Matty?” Jack demanded.

_“24:32.”_

_“Jack,”_ Cage broke in. _“If you can get to him, you need to find a long needle or a scalpel—something to puncture the chest cavity wall—and some tubing to create a vacuum and relieve the pressure.”_

“Yeah, I’ve seen it done in movies,” Jack muttered.

Mac shifted so that he was leaning closer to the door, his mouth moving, but Jack couldn’t make it out. He pressed his hand against the glass, wanting Mac to somehow feel less alone.

“You hang in there,” he said carefully, making sure Mac’s eyes were on him. “I’m getting you out, you hear me?”

Mac frowned, shaking his head slowly.

“Naw, man,” Jack shifted closer. “Screw this bomb. We’ll…find some way to speed manufacture the vaccine. There has to be another way. It doesn’t have to be you or the world—we can save both.”

Mac closed his eyes, folding his lips against his teeth as he shifted more upright, one hand against the wound on his side. Jack frowned, watching, working to anticipate Mac’s movements. Lifting his shaking hand to the window, Mac wrote _EOD_ in his blood, his shoulders heaving with the effort to pull in even shallow breaths.

“No,” Jack shook his head once, emphatically, completely aware that his team was getting every word of this, seeing every motion of Mac’s through the cameras. “No, man. Not anymore. You’re not at war anymore. We got out, remember? You and me, we got our second chance.”

Mac lifted his hand to start to write something else when his body arched as though gripped in a giant fist. His head dropped back, and his mouth opened wider, chest spasming, desperate for air.

“Goddammit!” Jack shouted, slamming his hand against the glass.

 _“Jack,”_ Matty broke in, her voice cold with emotion. _“You need to get out of there.”_

“What?!” Jack bellowed, pressing his free hand against his ear, not dropping the one on the glass as though it was a literal lifeline to MacGyver.

_“We have a way to contain the dispersal of the virus. There are 22 mins left on the timer. We can cap the ventilation and seal the virus inside.”_

“Killing Mac in the process,” Jack growled at his boss.

There was one heartbeat of silence, and then, _“It’s Mac…or thousands of people.”_

“Goddammit, Matty,” Jack exhaled. “Don’t you do this.”

Matty didn’t reply; Jack knew the drill, knew she was doing her job. But right now, he hated her for it. He leaned his forehead against the glass. Mac turned his head slightly so that Jack could see the electric blue of his eyes. Trembling, he lifted his hand and pressed his fingers against the glass, lining up with Jack’s hand.

Jack met his partner’s eyes—watching helplessly as Mac’s lips trembled with the effort of breathing, his eyes shimmering with the pool of tears. He wanted to say _something_. Reassure the younger man somehow that he was not leaving this building without him, no way.

Their fingers pressed so hard against the glass Jack could see the tips were white. He hadn’t realized he was openly crying until he felt the tears drip from his jaw. He kept his gaze on his partner, the image of Mac blurring through his tears, and saw Mac nod. He knew.

He knew how much Jack wanted to save him, how he would do _anything_ to save him. He didn’t need the words.

He already had them.

Mac pushed weakly away from the glass, and started to pull himself toward the unit containing the bomb. Jack’s eyes dropped to the bloody letters _EOD_ right below his eye-line. MacGyver was going to try to end this bomb, even if it killed him, having no way of knowing his team was going to trap him in there.

Jack’s roar of rage echoed through the comms and he pounded his fist against the glass. Mac didn’t turn—his whole focus was getting to that unit. With the blood trail he was leaving behind plus the way his body shook with the effort of breathing, it was slow going.

 _“Jack!”_ Riley’s voice echoed in his ear, making Jack flinch with the suddenness of it. _“I think I got through the security firewall.”_

“What does that mean?” Jack sniffed, dragging a hand down his face to banish some of the tears.

 _“I can get that door open for five seconds—_ literally _five. You’ll have to grab Mac by the leg and haul him out of that room.”_

Jack looked up at the ceiling, one hand to his comm. “I need you to repeat that—you’re saying I can get him out of there, but leave the bomb behind?”

 _“Yes,”_ Riley confirmed.

“How guaranteed is that ventilation capping?” Jack asked, eyes dropping to where Mac had paused in his effort to get back to the bomb, his head hanging low in exhaustion.

 _“It’s a risk, but a calculated one,”_ Matty replied. _“We’re 80% sure that the blast will not affect anyone outside the building.”_

Mac’s legs were within arm’s reach of the door. Jack could grab him and haul him out in that five seconds, possibly get them clear of the building before the bomb went off, hopefully get him to Cage before he suffocated or bled out.

Or.

His eyes dropped to the bloody _EOD_ on the window. Mac shifted to his side, visibly gasping, blood smeared on the floor beneath him as his hooded eyes met Jack’s.

 _I should have stayed and kept trying._ Jack could hear his partner’s rain-soaked voice clear as day. _Do you know what I can do in fifteen seconds, Jack?_

If he used this window to get Mac out of there, he _might_ save his life, but he would be destroying him in the process. Hooking the roll of duct tape to his belt, Jack began to unfasten his flack vest. The only thing left in there were spare clips of ammo and he wouldn’t need those inside that clean room.

“Riley,” he said. “Do it.”

 _“Jack,”_ Matty’s voice edged on a warning, clearly having seen him remove his protective gear. _“Don’t you dare.”_

Jack rubbed at his ear. “This tinnitus is a bitch, Matty. I’m not reading you.”

_“Jack, you get him out of that room and retreat to the exfil. That’s an order.”_

“Riley, you reading me? I’m ready when you are.”

Jack pushed to his feet, his eyes on Mac. The blond had sagged back against the floor, lips cyanotic, his chest spasming rapidly at this point. Jack pressed his hands against the door frame, bracing himself.

“Hit it!”

Riley’s anguished, _“Jack!”_ echoed in his ears as the door opened roughly two feet—just enough for him to slip through and avoid tripping over Mac’s sprawled legs—before slamming closed again. It was completely silent inside the clean room. He could barely hear Mac’s strangled breathing; the silence was that pervasive.

Jumping over Mac’s body, Jack darted a look inside the freezer unit at the bomb’s timer. 20:14. He could do this. He _had to_ do this.

Dropping down next to MacGyver, he turned the kid fully onto his back, grinning as Mac blinked his eyes open, staring dumbfounded up at him.

“You didn’t think I was going to let you get all the glory, did you?” Jack asked, smoothing Mac’s hair away from his face. “I save you; you save the world. That’s our deal, right?”

Mac wheezed, his fingers clutching at air, curling into fists. The black of their TAC gear made it hard for Jack to see how bad the wound was—but the fact that Mac had carried on a conversation by writing words in his own blood wasn’t a great sign. Scrambling over to where Mac had dropped his Swiss Army knife, Jack hurried back to his partner’s side, then cut his layers of shirts open from the neck to the waist.

“Oh kid,” Jack breathed, seeing blood smeared across a bruised ribcage.

Mac barely flinched as Jack palpated the wound—about two inches in length, mid-way along his ribcage, between two ribs, no telling how deep. It was actively bleeding, but Jack was more worried about the thin, strangled gasps for air that increased in desperation and intensity as Mac fought to stay conscious.

“Okay,” Jack nodded once. “I got this; don’t you worry. Cage talked me through it.”

Mac simply blinked up him, long past the capacity for communication or rational thought. Jack could see terror in his blue eyes as his shaking hands reached for Jack’s shirt, needing to anchor himself to something solid.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Jack said, patting Mac’s shoulder. “I’m gonna do me some improvising.”

Standing up, Jack cast his eyes around the destroyed lab, trying not to panic. He wasn’t a medic; he could barely put on a band-aide properly. Still, he did this or Mac died. And if Mac died, they all died.

“Cowboy up, Dalton,” he muttered to himself.

He started rummaging through the drawers, searching for something that could double as a needle and tubing. He had Mac’s knife, but the blade he used would have to be sterilized somehow. He saw a Bunsen burner and flint and turned on the flame while he searched for more supplies. Behind him, he could hear the desperate gasps growing thinner and further apart.

“You hang in there, bud. You hear me?” Jack tossed a look over his shoulder to see Mac’s neck arching off the floor, one hand grasping at the wound on his side. “You don’t quit until I tell you.”

He found a narrow syringe with a rubber plunger. It wasn’t attached to a needle, but the plastic point was long and thin. It would have to do. He kicked through some of the debris and glass on the ground around the two bad guys Mac had overpowered. He didn’t know what half of the chemicals were on the bottle labels, but then found one he recognized as rubbing alcohol. Gathering everything up, he went over to the Bunsen burner and ran one of the smaller, sharper blades from Mac’s knife over the flame until it turned black.

Hurrying back to Mac he set everything next to his partner, running a hand over Mac’s face once more, trying to draw the younger man’s gaze. Mac’s eyes were lidded, the blue irises only half visible and staring at something Jack wasn’t sure he wanted the kid to be seeing.

“Mac…hey, hey there,” he tapped Mac’s face lightly. “Angus, you look at me, now, you hear? Look at me.”

Mac’s lips trembled as he gasped, but he was able to slide his eyes over to meet Jack’s.

“Atta boy, you keep those eyes on this pretty face.”

Tearing a section from his T-shirt free, Jack used it and the rubbing alcohol to clean off a space of skin just below Mac’s collar bone. Then he cleaned the syringe with the alcohol as well.

“Okay, so…look, I’m gonna be honest with you,” Jack said, attention darting between Mac’s eyes and the section of skin he’d cleaned. “I’ve seen this done exactly three times in my life, and only one of them was in person. But, I’m pretty sure it’s going to hurt.”

Mac reached up a trembling hand and curled his fingers in the loose edge of Jack’s shirt.

“So, I’m sorry in advance, okay?”

Exhaling on a four-count, Jack cut a thin line through Mac’s skin, trying to ignore the way Mac flinched, neck arching back, lacking air to cry out. Before he could lose his nerve, Jack plunged the syringe into the opening in Mac’s chest and withdrew the plunger, grimacing as Mac’s face lined with a silent scream of pain.

The hiss of air through the opened syringe tube was at once terrifying and satisfying. Mac seemed to slowly melt into the floor as the pressure on his chest began to abate, the desperate gasps for air turned into a low keen of sound.

“Hnnnn…mmuuhhnnnn,” Mac alternated between breathing and pressing his lips together from the pain.

“That’s it, bud, just breathe,” Jack encouraged. “You’re doing great, just keep breathing.”

He felt Mac’s fingers twist into a fist in his shirt, almost certain the kid wasn’t aware he was doing it. When Mac’s breaths had almost started to even out, Jack used the duct tape to steady the syringe in place and stem the leaking blood from around the incision.

Mac’s hand slipped away from Jack’s shirt and grasped Jack’s wrist weakly. Jack put a steadying hand on Mac’s shoulder, peering into his partner’s pale face.

“Th-thank…you,” Mac managed, more a whisper than anything that held weight.

A laugh that sounded more like a sob kicked out from Jack’s chest and he covered Mac’s hand with his own. “Anytime, brother.”

Looking down at Mac’s side as the kid continued to steady his breathing, Jack winced. They weren’t going to get far with that wound bleeding like it was.

“I gotta do one more thing, though,” Jack said, regretfully.

Using Mac’s knife once more, he cut the forearm of his shirt sleeve off, then poured the rest of the rubbing alcohol onto the stab wound on Mac’s side.

“Ahh!” Mac arched up and away instinctively, one hand once more gripping Jack’s shirt, the other curling into a fist.

As quickly as he could, Jack folded up the sleeve-bandage and pressed it against the wound, then used the duct tape to wrap several times around Mac’s narrow torso to keep the bandage in place. Mac blinked sluggishly, his exhales having turned into sobs.

Jack rubbed the top of the kid’s sweaty head.

“You did good, partner,” he told him. “You did real good.”

“J-Jack,” Mac rasped, trying to blink his eyes into focus. “B-bomb.”

“Right.” Jack pushed to his feet and peered into the freezer unit. 10:24. Taking a steadying breath, he dropped back down next to Mac, reaching for his partner’s hand, and gripping it tightly, thumb to thumb. “Okay, bud, here’s the deal. You with me?”

Mac gave him a stilted nod, his eyes cloudy with pain.

“We have ten minutes on that timer,” Jack said. “Matty has a way to cut off the ventilation and contain the virus…she thinks.”

“Contain?” Mac rasped.

“In the building, with us—and anyone else I tried not to kill because you said they were just doing their jobs—still inside. You tracking with me, bud?”

“Yeah,” Mac replied weakly. “Up.”

“Okay, let me do most of the work, partner,” Jack nodded, hating that he had to move him, but knowing no other way around it. They got Mac to a seated position and waited a beat when he paled considerably. “That’s it, Mac, easy breath, okay?”

When Mac nodded that he was ready, Jack helped him get his legs under him and upright, the younger man leaning heavily on Jack until they got over to the freezer unit, where Mac clung to stay on his feet. Jack didn’t like the raspy sound of the younger man’s breathing, but at least he _was_ breathing and not gasping as he had been moments before.

As one, they peered inside, and Jack glanced over at Mac’s pale face, hoping for an answer.

“Couldn’t…get to…unit with…usual methods,” Mac gasped out.

“So, we go with unusual,” Jack stated.

Mac nodded and began to reach inside, his hand shaking visibly and covered with blood. He withdrew it and gripped the edge of the freezer unit, eyes darting around the edge of the timer.

“Jack,” Mac said, his low voice weak but serious. “Need you…be…m’hands.”

Jack pulled up straight, fear like a lightning rod down his spine. “Dude. I’m not a bomb tech.”

“Not…a medic…either,” Mac gasped. “’n performed a…thoracotomy…with a knife…’n d-duct tape.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack’s eyes dropped to the pink-tinged syringe still sticking out of Mac’s chest. “I’ve been hanging around you too long.”

“M’knife,” Mac forced out, his eyes tracking down to the smear of blood on the floor.

Jack reached down and grabbed the knife, following Mac’s rasping, stilted instructions on what implement to use, exactly where to place it next to the timer unit, how deep to drill, and what wires to cut.

“L-look f-for…,” Mac’s eyebrows folded close and he braced himself as his body shook slightly with pain.

“Mac?” Jack leaned close and held on to the younger man’s shoulder.

“Acid…,” Mac managed, opening his eyes, tears balancing on the lashes. “HCL or…H2SO4.”

“Sure, okay,” Jack released his friend and began going through the cabinets and debris searching for what Mac had described. The bigger of the two bad guys—who was currently hog-tied with zip ties—had regained consciousness and was growling at Jack in a language he couldn’t begin to understand.

“Right back atcha, bro,” Jack grinned at the man, plucking a bottle labeled HCL from the debris of glass and broken cabinets.

“Got it,” Jack returned to Mac just as the younger man’s eyes fluttered and he swayed precariously on his feet. “Whoa, whoa now.” Jack grabbed his partner and balanced him against the freezer unit once more. “C’mon, man, hang in there with me, okay? Just…uh, 6 more minutes.”

“’m okay,” Mac muttered. He described what Jack needs to do with the acid and the holes he’d burrowed next to the disengaged wires. “Soon…soon as you’re done…back…back away. Don’t…uh…don’t breathe it.”

Jack nodded, then pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose before opening the bottle. He followed Mac’s instructions to the letter, watching warily from a retreated position as the acid worked through the plastique and into the timer unit, shorting it out with a series of pops and some tendrils of dark grey smoke. Once the smoke cleared, however, Jack peered back down into the freezer unit.

The timer was black. No ominous red glow of numbers counting down. He wasn’t sure if he should believe he’d done it, but in the next moment, the glass doors slide open and the harsh, white lights clicked off, returning the room to the dusty glow of the emergency lighting.

“HA!” Jack barked out a triumphant laugh, meeting Mac’s eyes and relishing the genuine, happy grin he saw on the younger man’s face. “You see that, man? We did it! We killed the bastard!”

Mac nodded, but then his grin slipped from his face and he whispered, “Jack.”

With that, his eyes fluttered closed and his knees buckled. Jack tossed the now-empty bottle aside and lunged for his partner, catching Mac against him and lowering them both to the ground.

“No, no no no,” Jack muttered, fumbling for access to the younger man’s neck as Mac’s head lolled forward. He felt a pulse—weak and skipping all over the place, but there. “You don’t quit until I tell you,” he whispered against the top of Mac’s head, pulling the younger man close.

_“Jack!”_

Jack flinched at the unexpected sound of Bozer’s voice in his ear. He’d almost forgotten that an opened door meant he had comms with the team back.

_“Is he alive?”_

“Yeah,” Jack started, but had to clear the emotion from his voice and try again. “Yeah, man, he’s alive. But he needs help right the hell now. My syringe and duct tape solution are only going to hold for so long.”

 _“You need to get to the exfil,”_ Matty said, her tone crisp with either anger or relief, Jack couldn’t tell.

 _“The hell he does,”_ Bozer interjected from where he’d been observing everything from the jet’s monitors. _“Get him to a damn hospital!”_

 _“He can’t go to a hospital, Bozer,”_ Riley filled in. _“None of you are supposed to be there.”_

“Cage,” Jack broke in, remembering the other agent’s claims. “I get him to the exfil, you can help him?”

 _“I can,”_ Cage confirmed.

“What about those guards?” Jack asked, eyes darting around the hallways he could see through the Plexiglas. “The ones I didn’t shoot, I mean.”

 _“No reinforcements have shown up,”_ Matty replied, _“and for the moment, the others have stayed on their side of the firewall.”_

“Let’s call that a win,” Jack grunted, shifting to his knees. “Warm up those engines,” he propped Mac up, getting into position behind him. “I’m getting us out of here. Matty—have W.H.O. send in whatever clean-up team they need to get rid of what’s left of this bomb.”

 _“Roger that,”_ Matty replied.

“C’mon, brother,” Jack said, pulling Mac up with him. “Need you to help me a bit here.”

The kid was thin, but as tall as Jack, making a cradle hold awkward. Fireman’s carry or over the shoulder had the potential problem of disrupting the syringe taped awkwardly to his chest that was currently the only thing keeping Mac breathing. Dead weight was not going to be easy to carry down three flights of stairs. He pulled Mac’s arm across his shoulders and wrapped his arm around Mac’s waist, dragging him forward.

Mac groaned as the motion pulled at his wounds.

“I know it hurts, bud, but I need you to use that pain and wake up a bit,” Jack said, hitching Mac up higher on his hip.

Mac’s head hung low, his forehead and cheek pressed against Jack’s chest. Jack was literally dragging his partner along, just trying to get to the stairway. He heard Riley talking him through the way around the fire-suppression doors she’d closed earlier and to a stairwell. Jack contemplated shifting Mac over his shoulder, but was terrified of impacting the syringe.

“We got this, Mac,” Jack muttered, holding Mac tightly against him and starting down the stairs. “This is nothing…remember Herat? That was messed up. Think _you_ carried _me_ out of that one.” Jack winced as Mac’s low groan turned into a soft sob, his head bouncing against Jack’s chest. But, Jack realized, his feet had started to respond, moving with Jack’s down the stairs. “And then there was Izmir. Didn’t think either of us were walking out of that one…and here we are…saving the goddamn day again.”

“Jack…,” Mac wheezed.

“Welcome to the party, pal,” Jack clutched at Mac, hauling him down another flight of stairs.

Mac stumbled a bit, trying to pull his head up. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Yep, pretty much,” Jack agreed. Mac sagged a bit in his arms. “Hey, hey, now. You still with me?”

“All…all things…being equal,” Mac rasped, reaching up with his free hand to clutch at Jack’s shirt. “’d rather be…in Philadelphia.”

Jack barked out a quick, surprised laugh. “It’s not dire enough for you to be quoting _Die Hard_ , man.”

Mac’s sloppy smile helped Jack find another gear. “You started…started it.”

 _“Jack,”_ Riley broke in, startling Jack once more. He kept forgetting they could hear everything said. _“You’ve got company.”_

“Roger that,” Jack replied, pulling Mac down the last flight of stairs, the wounded agent helping as much as his weakened legs would let him. “You with me, Mac?”

Mac nodded against Jack’s shoulder.

“We are going out this door and directly to the truck. We’re not stopping for anything.”

“’kay,” Mac replied.

“You got this, kid.”

“I got it,” Mac nodded, his hands curling into fists, clutching Jack’s shirt in their grip, one on the shoulder, one on the chest.

Jack pushed the door open, eliciting the harsh scream of the emergency alarm, and took off, pulling Mac along in what was quite possibly the most awkward three-legged race of all time. They cleared the fence line before Mac cried out, feet tangling up and going to his knees despite the grip he had on Jack. Murmuring words of encouragement, Jack pulled him up into his arms, Mac’s head hanging back limply over Jack’s arm, and took off for the alcove of trees where they hid the truck as quickly as the added weight of his friend allowed.

By the time they reached the vehicle, Mac was shivering with pain, and blood seeped out from beneath the duct tape holding both of his wounds together. Jack paused a half second to make sure the syringe was still clear, then eased Mac across the tuck’s bench seat before rounding to the driver’s side. Slipping behind the wheel, he pulled Mac up against him once more, starting the engine by reaching around his partner’s slim body.

Mac was mumbling something—Jack couldn’t make it out. He caught random words as they bounced and skidded their way out of the compound and away from the facility. It wasn’t until they got on a smooth road headed to the airstrip that Jack caught the words, “too much” and “alone.”

It hit Jack like a fist to the gut, the place where Mac’s disoriented mind went when in pain: to loss and abandonment. Not the friends who had proved they’d be there for him no matter what, but to the family that should have been there for him and wasn’t.

Jack wrapped his arm around Mac’s midsection, letting the lanky agent slip down until his head was in Jack’s lap, his legs turned sideways in the seat. Jack felt his partner’s blood seep through the bandage and slick up his bare arm where he’d torn his sleeve free.

“You’re not alone, Mac,” Jack said, gripping the kid’s loose hand. “Not anymore. And you’re not too much work, so just forget about that right now. I would go to hell and back for you, brother. You hear me? Mac? You hear me?”

Mac groaned, the sound slipping through shivering lips and Jack knew they had a very real problem on their hands.

“Cage, you read me?”

 _“I’m here,”_ she replied, her voice tight, no doubt in reaction to hearing his plea to Mac.

“He’s going into shock,” Jack reported, avoiding a massive pothole as he barreled down the road as fast as the little truck would let him. “We need fluids and blankets, and something to fix this…this MacGyvered version of a chest tube I used.”

 _“I’ll be ready,”_ Cage promised him. _“How far out?”_

“Five minutes,” Jack reported, seeing the break in the trees ahead of him.

Holding Mac close, he headed for the airstrip, spitting dirt and grass in his wake as he screeched to a stop. Bozer and Cage were running for the truck before Jack had the engine off. Bozer tore open the door and reached for Mac’s legs. They worked as a unit, pulling Mac free until Jack could run around and take the weight of his head and shoulders. Mac cried out as they carried him up the narrow stairs into the jet, gasping and whimpering incoherently when they laid him on the stretched-out bench seat.

Bozer ran to the front to let the pilot know they were ready to get the hell out of Kosovo. Cage hooked a saline bag above their heads, then tore the rest of Mac’s black TAC shirt from him, exposing his arms.

“His veins are shit,” she grumbled. She took his pulse, shaking her head. “I can barely…I mean it’s there, but….”

“ _Get a blood pressure reading,”_ Matty instructed through their comms. _“I’ve got Doctor Warner in here so she’s ready for when you arrive.”_

Cage fumbled with the digital blood pressure cuff, wrapping it around Mac’s wrist and resting his arm above his heart.

“70 over 55,” Cage reported. “His heart rate is skyrocketing.”

 _“You need to find a vein, push fluids,”_ they heard Dr. Warner through the comms. _“He’s lost too much blood and the trauma of the pneumothorax is affecting his heart. Look for a vein in the back of the hands.”_

Jack picked up Mac’s right hand, running his thumbs over the kid’s bruised knuckles. “Try here,” he coached Cage.

In a few minutes, they were able to get an IV started and tape down, and were removing the hasty duct tape bandage around Mac’s torso. Cage described the wound to Dr. Warner, but Jack simply sat next to Mac, holding his partner’s free hand. Mac tossed his head slightly when Cage cleaned the wound and packed it with sterile gauze before wrapping it again.

“Easy, brother,” Jack soothed. “You’re doing great, Mac. You just keep breathing.”

“Jack….”

“Right here, man.”

Mac swallowed, and shifted as Cage, following the doctor’s instructions, reached for the taped down syringe up near Mac’s collar bone. Jack saw a tear leak out from beneath Mac’s closed lids, tracking through the dried blood on his cheekbone. Jack put a hand out and stopped Cage’s progress for a moment.

“Mac?”

“Did…did we…stop it?” Mac blinked his eyes open, blurry gaze seeking something solid, something familiar.

Jack gripped is partner’s hand and slipped from the couch to his knees so that he was eye-level with Mac once more.

“We did, partner. We stopped it. You knew exactly what to do.”

Mac was breathing shallowly, his body shivering with pain, but he gripped Jack’s hand tight.

“Thank…thank you…for n-not choosing to…to save m-me,” Mac whispered.

“You got it all wrong, Mac,” Jack replied, gently brushing the blonde’s hair back from his face. “Saving you saves the world.”

“You got that right,” Bozer chimed in from where he stood above Mac’s head.

Mac blinked once, then his eyes slipped shut and the cuff on his wrist began flashing.

“Oh, shit,” Cage muttered, abandoning her intent to adjust the syringe. “Doc, his blood pressure bottomed out.”

_“Pulse?”_

“For now, yes.”

 _“He needs volume,”_ the doctor’s voice was tight and clipped. _“Get his feet above his heart and get him warm. You have any blood platelets on board?”_

Bozer met Jack’s eyes and immediately began to search while Jack wrapped one of the Mylar blankets around Mac and Cage propped his feet up on stacked cushions.

“We have two liters of AB+ and one of B+,” Bozer called out.

“What is MacGyver?” Cage asked.

“AB-,” Jack reported, afraid for the first time since he’d seen Mac fight for air on the other side of that glass. “But I’m a universal donor.”

 _“Okay, listen,”_ Dr. Warner ordered. _“This has to be done carefully so that we don’t tank Jack’s blood pressure in the process.”_

She continued with her instructions, and Jack allowed himself to be maneuvered, so long as he kept Mac’s hand gripped in his. Somehow, he felt that if he lost that contact, he’d lose his partner and he simply could not let that happen. He felt Cage insert the catheter into his arm, allowed Bozer to shift him so that they could line up the tubing, then watched as another catheter was inserted into a vein on Mac’s neck as the ones on his arms had collapsed.

They waited, watching Mac breathe, assured by Dr. Warner that the thoracotomy Jack had performed would suffice until they got to the hospital. At one point, Bozer wrapped another Mylar blanket around Jack’s shoulders, warding off the chills he hadn’t even been aware of. When the doctor instructed, they disconnected the blood transfer tubing, and Cage handed Jack a bottle of orange juice, which he downed in about five gulps as he moved so that he was sitting at Mac’s hip again.

“C’mon, kiddo,” Jack whispered, using the warm rag Bozer handed him to wipe the blood from Mac’s face. “I need you to look at me, okay? Just let me know you’re still with me.”

Mac kept breathing, his body unnaturally still. Bozer sat on the floor, his back against the plane wall, his fists pressed against his mouth. Jack was aware of Cage behind him, but wasn’t able to see what she was doing other than organizing the medical supplies they might need for the remainder of the flight. He was focused on the pale face, slack mouth, and barely-moving chest in front of him.

“Mac,” he said quietly, brushing the younger man’s hair out of his face. “You told me once that it was kinda strange, the levels of chaos people can handle in their lives.” He swallowed, watching Mac’s chest hitch slightly. “I need you to know…your chaos? I can handle it. Don’t you forget that.”

Mac groaned slightly, rolling his head on the cushion, then blinking up dazedly at Jack. For a moment, no one moved, but then Mac’s eyes seemed to clear, and Jack’s smile was broad. Mac’s gaze drifted from the Mylar blanket around Jack down to the one draped across his body.

“Now I know…what a TV dinner…feels like,” he rasped.

Jack barked out a laugh, watching with delight and relief as Mac’s exhausted grin echoed back to him.

“That’s my boy,” Jack grinned, wiping tears of relief from his eyes.

Bozer crawled forward, resting a hand carefully on Mac’s shoulder. “I knew you wouldn’t die right here in front of me, man.”

“We’re all…gonna die, Boze,” Mac murmured, licking his dry lips, and blinking slowly. “Trick is…not to rush it.”

“Yeah, let’s just all keep that in mind,” Bozer grinned.

“Rest, Mac,” Cage spoke up from above Jack’s head. “We’ll be back at the Phoenix in about an hour. There’s a doctor waiting.”

Mac nodded and closed his eyes. Jack started to move away, but felt his partner’s hand grip his tightly, pulling him back.

“Mac?”

MacGyver didn’t respond other than to keep a steady grip on Jack’s hand.

“Yeah, okay, bud.” Jack smiled, settling back with his hip near Mac’s head. “I’ll stay.”


	3. After

“It comes down to the difference between what you were planning to do and what life throws at you and you have to end up doing. The one who knows how to improvise is the one who comes out ahead.”

\- Jason Isbell

**

**Part 3: After**

_-Mac-_

_“Save us, please! Just get us out of here!”_

The world echoed with pain and heat. The cacophony was brilliant in its chaos, bowing him and sending him to his knees.

_“Just do your job, kid. Disarm that bomb.”_

There were too many wires…too many colors…too many options.

_“You killed my mom, you bastards!”_

He had to choose…dammit, he had to choose, and it was impossible. How could he choose? How could he save them all?

_“I’m getting you out of here, kid.”_

Heat…so much heat. It beat against his back, sucked the air from his lungs. It was melting him, and he wanted to let it. Except he couldn’t because…the hands. The hands holding him up. Holding him tight. They were pulling him away from the heat. Away from the chaos.

They were pulling him to where it was cool and quiet. Safe.

He was safe.

“How about you open your eyes for me, bud?”

There was something compelling about that voice. He wanted to do as it asked, but his eyelids were so heavy. Weighted, almost. Like an anvil rested on each one.

“You’ve been sleeping about three days now,” the voice continued. He knew it, that voice. It had a presence. A name. “They’ve taken most of the tubes out, so you don’t look quite as much like one of your science experiments.”

 _Jack_.

That was the voice. His friend. His partner. His brother.

“You’ve been dreaming a lot,” Jack sighed.  There were fingers wrapped around his. Long, calloused, strong. They held his hand in a strong grip. “I think I can guess about what. Wish I could change that for you, but…guess part of having a memory and mind like yours means you can’t let go of things quite as easily as the rest of us.”

Fire. Bombs. Heat. Pain. Chaos.

“C’mon, kid. Open your eyes. Let me know you’re still with me.”

Mac worked to comply. It was harder than anything he’d ever done. Light seared his head the moment his lashes parted, but the hand around his tightened and he tried again.

“That’s it, Mac.”

He blinked once, and the weight seemed to ease a bit as the room around him slowly came into focus. There wasn’t much to see; the room around him was dimly lit and everything was white. For a brief, terrifying moment, he remembered glass shattering and the smell of spilled chemicals, but then a face bent over him and he focused on warm brown eyes, skin crinkling at the corners as a smile belied the tears swimming there.

“There you are.”

“Jack.” _God_ , his throat was on fire. He felt a straw at his cracked lips and in seconds he was sucking down the cooling relief of water, feeling it spread through his body to his toes.

“That’s it,” Jack smiled pulling the cup of water away when Mac stopped to take a breath. “How you doin’, bud?”

Mac swallowed his eyes tracing his friend’s face, then focusing on the room behind Jack.

“Mac?”

“Where…?”

“You’re in the trauma center at the Phoenix,” Jack supplied. “Do you remember getting out of the lab?”

It came back to him in a rush of sensation and images—the feeling of drowning on air, the shocking pain of Jack stabbing him, the rolling, pervasive ache of escape, the shuddering, terrifying cold as he felt himself slipping into darkness. He didn’t realize he’d tightened his grip on Jack’s hand until the man stood and leaned over him.

“Easy, kid,” Jack said, reaching up to wipe a tear that had escaped Mac’s rapidly blinking eyes. “Just take a breath.”

“I…remember,” Mac gasped.

“Yeah, that much is clear.” Jack nodded, not yet easing back, seeming to recognize that for a moment, he was Mac’s only anchor. “Gimme one easy breath, okay? It’s just us here, Mac. You’re okay, I promise.”

Mac exhaled slowly, counting to four in his head with his eyes closed. He opened them and nodded at Jack when he felt his heart rate slow to something that felt less like it was going to fling itself from his ribcage. Jack shifted back so that he was sitting next to Mac’s bed again, this time with his hands folded together in his lap.

“You hurting anywhere?” Jack asked.

Mac thought before he answered. His side hurt. And his shoulder. And his head. But nothing he couldn’t handle. Nothing worse than he’d felt before.

“’m okay,” he replied.

Jack gave him another drink then helped him ease the bed up slightly so that he wasn’t looking up at Jack, but over at him.

“How long?”

“We got back here three days ago,” Jack informed him. “You were…in pretty bad shape.”

“You gave me your blood,” Mac remembered.

Jack smiled. “I did. Now you’re a triple threat: looks, brains, _and_ brawn.”

“Don’t think it works like that,” Mac offered him a smile.

“It works exactly like that,” Jack brought his chin up. “Don’t let all that science confuse you.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Mac said quietly. “You saved my life.”

“Just returning one of the bagillion I owe you, junior.”

Mac glanced at the table next to his bed. On it was a box of paperclips, his Swiss Army knife, and a flash drive. He picked up the paper clips.

“Matty,” Jack supplied. “She’s…feeling less than awesome about telling me to leave you behind.”

Mac didn’t look at Jack, keeping his eyes on the box of paperclips in his hand. “The ventilation?” he guessed, the facts less than clear in his memory.

“She was trying to save as many as she could,” Jack tried.

Mac simply nodded. He set the paperclips aside and picked up the flash drive.

“Bozer downloaded some entertainment for you, he said,” Jack explained. “Said he knew you’d be wanting out before you were ready, so this was a way to distract you.”

Mac nodded again, setting down the flash drive next to the paperclips. His mind was skipping through images, like his own flash drive was corrupted. Snippets of voices, of facts, of expressions were sliding around behind his eyes and he felt dizzy and nauseous trying to track them all.

“Maybe you should get some rest,” Jack suggested, reaching for the nurse’s call button.

“Wait.”

Jack’s hand froze mid-reach. He waited quietly for Mac to say something else. When no other words came quickly, Jack leaned forward on the bedrail.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, bud?”

“How did you get in the room?” Mac asked, looking at Jack, clueless as to the impact his expression had on his partner except for the visible flinch he saw when Jack drew back slightly. “The door…. I couldn’t get out. How did you get in?”

Jack rolled his lips against his teeth, then dragged his hand down his face as he sat back against his chair. Mac could hear the rasp of his friend’s calloused palm against the graying scruff of his whiskers. The weathered lines at the corners of Jack’s eyes folded as he winced, clearly thinking of the best direction to take his answer.

“Riley hacked the security system,” Jack replied, apparently having decided to go for broke. “She got me five seconds. Matty ordered me to get you out of the room and to get to the exfil.”

“But you made a different choice,” Mac guessed.

“Even if I got you out of there,” Jack lifted a shoulder, “you were…you were dying, Mac. I had no guarantee I could get you to the exfil before you bled out or suffocated.”

Mac licked his lips, realizing what Jack was saying.

“I gambled on being able to put you back together enough you could disarm the bomb and save our asses,” Jack concluded. “Turns out, I made the right choice.”

“How much trouble are you in?”

“I’m on two weeks administrative leave,” Jack replied. “Which, y’know, suits me just fine since I don’t plan on going back without you.”

Mac looked down at his lap, rubbing his thumb against the stitching on his blanket. “It was a risky move.”

“It was worth it,” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “ _You_ were worth it, bud.”

Mac was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Did you do this because of Argentina?”

Jack smiled sadly as he looked down. “You mean, did I do this, so you didn’t hate me for picking you over the world like I said I would?”

Mac simply stared at him. Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between his knees as he leveled his eyes at his friend.

“I still picked you, Mac,” Jack said quietly. “Always will.”

Mac let his head fall back against his pillows, his eyes growing heavy.

“Get some sleep, kid,” Jack instructed. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Mac kept his eyes on his partner until sleep pulled him close, and he felt himself sink below the surface of consciousness like slipping low in a pool of water. There was nothing for a long stretch of time. And then…a dial turned. And there was noise and heat and he was standing in a room filled with screams and a woman lay bleeding on the floor next to him, her child staring up at him with eyes full of fire.

This time, though, he was standing in front of an IED dressed in nothing but a white lab coat and a sweat pants, his foot on the edge of a pressure plate. He tried to tell the boy to run, to leave and get safe but instead the boy sat down on top of the IED, his eyes burning into Mac. It was like screaming into a black hole—the words bounced back to him, echoing in his head while the silence of the room sucked up the sound.

He was so intent on getting the boy to safety that he leaned forward and took his foot off the plate, exploding the IED and slamming nails and rocks and shards of glass through the boy’s body and across the room and into Mac.

“MAC!”

He was gasping, sweating, shaking.

“Wake up, bud, come on, now.”

He opened his eyes and realized that he was sitting up in a narrow hospital bed, Jack leaning over him, grasping him by the arms, his face so close their foreheads were practically touching.

“It was an IED,” Mac gasped, reaching up with desperate, trembling hands to grab Jack’s arms, seeking balance. “There was glass and nails and it tore him up and stabbed me— “

“Whoa, whoa, easy, kiddo,” Jack soothed. “You’re okay. No IED. No bombs. You’re safe.”

Mac gulped down air, trying to slow the crash of his heart, searching Jack’s face. “No bombs?”

“Not in here.”

“What about the kid?”

Jack’s face did that thing where it looked like the words physically wounded him. “The kid from Argentina?”

That set Mac back. _Argentina_. A mission. Weeks ago. “He didn’t make it.”

“No, bud, I’m sorry. He didn’t make it.”

“But…something stabbed me….” Mac eased back, trying to put the random pieces of his dream into the right place in his mind so that they would stay put. Jack’s hands slid down his arms as he let Mac lay back and he sat on the edge of Mac’s bed.

“Yeah, some big-assed Serbian stabbed you—with a glass shiv,” Jack confirmed, his eyes narrowing as he studied Mac’s face. “You back with me?”

Mac nodded shakily, dragging a hand down his face. He was surprised to feel tears on his cheeks. “Fucking nightmares,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, well, the meds they have you on probably aren’t helping,” Jack allowed. He gave Mac some water and sat quietly as Mac gathered himself.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Mac said.

“What for this time?” Jack joked.

Mac remembered looking at Jack’s devastated expression through the glass door. He remembered writing _EOD_ on the glass like a death sentence. He remembered pressing his hand to the glass against Jack’s hand like a promise and a farewell in one. He remembered the pressure in his chest—like drowning on air—and the complete fear that this was it, this was the end and he hadn’t said what he’d needed to say, done what he’d needed to do.

“For trying to say goodbye.”

“Yeah,” Jack huffed, looking down. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“Okay,” Mac promised softly. He waited a few beats, listening to the quiet hum of voices outside of his room. “Where is everyone?”

“Somewhere else,” Jack shrugged. “Home, the Phoenix. They’ve been here to check in, but you’ve always been sleeping. Lazy bones.”

Mac returned Jack’s half-grin. “How’s Bozer?”

“He’s doing okay,” Jack reassured him. “Once he knew I hadn’t killed you by either stabbing you with a syringe or giving you my blood, he seemed pretty confident you’d be home any day.”

“He’s changed,” Mac said.

“Yeah, they grow up so fast,” Jack sighed, causing Mac to chuckle, then wince as he wrapped his arm around his side. “You’ve got a bunch of stitches there,” Jack nodded to where Mac rested his hand against his ribs. “And up in your shoulder. Your skin wasn’t so happy about all the duct tape I used,” Jack grimaced, apologetically, “but since it kept you together, I’m going to say it was worth it.”

Mac nodded, fingers finding the sensitive skin on his ribs.

“They had to do a little repair work in your chest, but said with rest—like, y’know, actual rest…not the MacGyver version of rest—you’ll be back to normal in a few weeks.”

“Thanks to you,” Mac smiled.

“Well, I do watch a lot of movies,” Jack lifted a shoulder. “And if Mad Max can do that to Furiosa and save her life, I wasn’t going to back down.”

Mac grinned, then reached up to the side table to pluck a paperclip out of the box. It was hard to bend it at first with the pulse oximeter on his right index finger, but once he got it straightened out, he was able to manipulate it with his other fingers.

“Hey, Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“What happened to that sniper you were telling me about?”

Jack tilted his head slightly, as if he were listening to his own memories. “He was honorably discharged about two months before I met you,” he said. “He’s a social worker now; runs a mission for vets. Has a group meeting every Wednesday night in Bunker Hill.”

“Group?”

Jack nodded, his eyes on the middle distance.

“You ever go?”

“I have,” Jack replied quietly. “Used to more than I do now, though.”

Mac tilted his head in curiosity. “Why’s that?”

Jack’s gaze tracked up to meet Mac’s eyes. “’Cause, I got me this genius partner who somehow knows how to both disarm a bomb and untangle my head. So, I’m good.”

Mac stopped twisting the paperclip, and looked down, swallowing hard. The lump in his throat seemed to press upwards until it sat squarely behind his eyes, burning them with an unnamed emotion. He blinked, feeling the sting of tears as they slipped past his weakened defenses.

“Goes both ways you know,” he said, tightly.

“Yeah, I know, brother.”

Jack reached over and plucked the paperclip from Mac’s still fingers.

“Double infinity, huh?” Jack asked, looking at the twisted wire.

Mac shrugged. “Guess I was just thinking about how long I was going to need you to watch my back.”

Jack grinned, then rolled the paperclip into the palm of his hand as he curled his fingers into a fist. Mac bumped his knuckles against Jack’s.

* * *

_-Jack-_

“Hey, Pop,” Jack greeted as he crouched down to sit on his heels in front of his father’s gravestone. “It’s been a while.”

The day was thin, night edging the sunlight out of the way with the eagerness of winter. It wasn’t yet six, but the shadows were long, and the warmth of mid-day was gone. Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, then pulled a can of Modelo off the plastic ring of the six-pack. Setting the remaining cans down, he saluted his father’s marker, popped the can open, and drank deeply.

Sighing, he sat all the way down on the grass and crossed his legs beneath him.

“Been missing you a bunch today,” Jack confessed, eyes tracking around the empty cemetery. He pulled out the dog tags he’d taken to wearing since they’d been temporarily stolen several months prior. “But then…when do I not miss you, huh?”

He sighed, then cleared his throat. “You know my partner—skinny, blond kid…too smart for his own good? He got hurt last week. Bad. Worse than anything that’s happened to us since…well, a while.”

He cleared his throat again, taking another sip of beer.

“Damn, Pop. Don’t know what’s wrong with me. Shouldn’t be so hard to talk with you about this stuff. I mean, I’m the tough guy, right? I’m the brawn, he’s the brains.” Jack shook his head, tugging at the grass, pulling a tuft of it free. “But, see…this time, I had to be both, Pops. His life depended on it. And I was scared, man. I was _scared_. Like I’ve never been before.”

His voice cracked, and Jack held himself still, fighting to keep the emotion buried low, where it was supposed to stay.

“See, I made a call in a mission about a month ago and…people died. People we were supposed to protect. But…Mac, he…if I hadn’t made the call, Pop, _he_ woulda died. And…thing is, I know I made the right call. I know I did. But then last week…I went another way and…well, if I hadn’t been damn lucky. I coulda lost him, Pop. I coulda lost.”

He took another sip of beer, thinking. Remembering. Second-guessing.

“How’d you do it? Huh? How’d you…survive a war _and_ raise me…and stay such a… _sane_ man? I got…I got so many questions I wish I could ask you now.” Jack sighed, finishing the can of beer and flattening it in his fist. “Like…how do you know when to…when to step in front of them and when to let them fall? How do you know when you’re being an overbearing asshole and when they need to just shut up and listen? How do you figure out the balance between trust and protection?”

The cicadas had gone dormant, but the night owls were out in force. They called back answers to him as undecipherable as if his father had responded from beyond the pale. Jack sighed and pulled another can free from its plastic hold.

“You’d like this kid, Pop,” Jack said, sipping his beer. “He’s a good guy, my partner. Takes too much on his shoulders. Doesn’t talk enough. Stays too much in his head. But he’s like…genuinely good to his bones. I wish you coulda met him.” Jack huffed a low laugh. “Then maybe you’d be able to help me figure out how to help him.”

Porch lights from houses skirting the edge of the cemetery began to turn on with the growing darkness. Jack felt the Santa Ana’s pick up a bit, blowing salt air through the stone markers and skimming the bristled edges of his buzzed hair.

“I need to figure out how to help him let go of something, Pop,” Jack said softly. “Something that…to be honest with you, was more my fault than his. How do you help a friend forgive themselves, huh? If I could figure that out…maybe he could climb out of his head and heal up a bit.”

Sitting quietly in the dark, Jack finished his second beer, thinking about the way Mac had acted like himself when Riley and Cage had come to visit him in the hospital, or when Bozer had come to pick him up and take him home. He’d grinned and laughed and teased. He’d thanked everyone with that genuine light in his eyes. He’d even called Matty to thank her for the paperclips and graciously accepted her explanation and sort-of apology for having to consider leaving him behind to die.

But the whole time, there had been a void around him that Jack felt only he could see. Like a shadow dogging his younger partner’s heels, just one step behind. Jack wasn’t going to forget the terror in Mac’s eyes when he woke from that nightmare in the hospital anytime soon. The raw shout that had drawn Jack to the bed had rattled him, bringing the danger and reality of their job into focus in a way not much had before. Mac had filed it all away—compartmentalizing as he always did—but Jack hadn’t been able to shake it. Something that made MacGyver - _Mac_ \- had been jarred loose and Jack was afraid if he couldn’t find a way to fix it, they’d lose it forever.

“You’re a good listener, Pop,” Jack smiled, reaching for a third beer.

“Maybe that’s where you get it,” came a low voice from over Jack’s shoulder.

He jerked violently, twisting around to see the starlight reflect off a blond head.

“Holy shit, Mac,” Jack exclaimed, pressing a hand to his chest to try to keep his racing heart where it belonged in his chest. “You scared me to death!”

“Sorry,” Mac chuckled, his laugh a low balm against the night. “Mind if I join you two?”

“Well, since you almost had me joining Pops, here, I guess I should let you,” Jack returned, handing a beer to Mac as the lanky agent sank down next to his partner, legs crossed beneath him. “How long you been lurking back there?”

“Um…not long,” Mac said, the lie heavy in his hesitation.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Processes of elimination,” Mac replied. “When you’re not with me, at home, Phoenix, or watching Riley’s six, odds are you’re here.”

“That so?”

“It is,” Mac nodded, and Jack watched as he popped open the beer and took a long drink.

“And why were you looking for me?”

He could barely make out his friend’s shape in the darkness, but he thought he saw Mac lift a shoulder.

“I needed a good listener.”

Jack felt something inside him sigh with acceptance and relief. He pulled a beer free and popped it open. “What’s going on, Mac?”

For a long moment MacGyver simply sat near him, sipping the Modelo, his profile illuminated by a combination of porch lights and starlight. After a few more sips of beer, he cleared his throat.

“I feel like I should be used to losing people,” he paused, breathing. “I’ve lost a lot in my life, in one way or another. My mom, Harry, my dad in a way, Peña, men I served with. But…it’s different when it’s a mission. When it’s my job. And…I don’t know what to do with this…this, uh…hole. Inside me.”

Jack nodded, waiting.

“When I first was an EOD tech,” Mac continued, his voice deep, soft, thoughtful, “I followed the rules. I followed the rules or people died. But then…I realized that sometimes the rules were made outside of the world we lived in. They didn’t…apply to my reality. They didn’t apply to the little kids firing AKs…or the women with their abayas covering bombs. But the Army,” Mac paused, drinking. “The Army still had its rules, even if they didn’t apply. So, I figured out how to work around them. And I saved lives, Jack. I saved a lot of lives.”

“I know you did,” Jack nodded, watching. Listening. Feeling his father closer to him in this moment than he had in years.

“Then back home, rules were for children,” Mac chuffed. “No one followed them. No bad guys, anyway. And so, I didn’t, either. I figured it out as I went along. I knew what I was doing—I mean, jazz is ninety percent improv, but Miles Davis always knew exactly what he was doing, y’know?”

Jack had no idea what Mac was talking about, but he nodded anyway, going with the metaphor to keep his friend talking.

“But I’m starting to think that maybe…maybe all those times we walked away, all those times we saved people…maybe it was just luck.”

Jack shook his head immediately.

“Maybe if I’d been following the rules in Argentina,” Mac continued softly, crushing the beer can in his grip, “maybe that family would still be alive.”

“Naw, man,” Jack continued to shake his head. “Look. We were soldiers, yeah? We were soldiers _in war_. We know better than _anyone_ that sometimes shit happens. People die. And it’s not because you didn’t clear a street or because you didn’t call a target or take out a bad guy. It’s because it’s war. And people die.”

“Yeah, but we’re not at war, Jack.”

“Aren’t we?” Jack challenged. “Maybe it’s just a different kind of war. A different kind of battle.” He pulled the last two beers free and handed one to Mac. “Your way of not following the rules has been the only thing between us and death more times than I want to think about.”

Mac hung his head, popping the top of his beer open.

“I know we lost people, Mac. And I know you carry that with you. But you want to know who is _alive_ today because of you?” Jack held out his hand, lifting fingers as he talked. “Sarah, Ralph, that Russian guy Alex, Katarina, Valerie, Bishop— “

“Okay, Jack,” Mac broke in, holding up his beer.

“No, no, I’m on a roll. I haven’t even gotten to the times you saved my ass. Or Riley’s, or Bozer’s. I have a whole ‘nother hand here, brother. Want me to go on?”

“Not really.”

“You think if you followed the rules in Kosovo we’d be sitting here right now, talking to my Pops?”

“You’re the one who saved us in Kosovo,” Mac said, rubbing his healing side. “You were a real hero, man.”

Jack shrugged. “Just doing my job,” he said. “Watching out for you.”

Mac lifted his beer can, this time in a salute. “Thanks for being damn good at your job.”

Jack bounced his can against Mac’s and they both drank deeply. After a few beats of silence while they both sat listening to the night, Jack frowned, looking over at his partner.

“How’d you get here, anyway?”

“I had Bozer drop me at the entrance. Why?”

“’Cause, I may need you to drive me home,” Jack confessed, feeling his four beers begin to muddle his perception nicely.

Mac chuckled.

“What?” Jack challenged.

“Just something Bozer said once,” he said, a grin in his voice. “About us being so close, if one of us drank too much, the other one got the hangover.”

Jack pushed clumsily to his feet. “Well, if that’s the case, I’ll apologize for your morning now.”

“You’re forgiven,” Mac replied.

Jack eyed him as he took off his long-sleeved shirt to gather up the empty beer cans in the center. The bandages around his torso were slightly visible under the thin layer of T-shirt. Jack couldn’t help but spare a fleeting thought to his partner needing to take it easy, rest like the doctor’s said, and not be out wandering around a cemetery in the middle of the night. Mac gathered the sleeves up like a sack then climbed to his feet, leveling his gaze at Jack as if reminding him that he could, in fact, take care of himself.

Jack turned to face his father’s gravestone. “Night, Pops,” he said. “See ya.”

Mac took his partner’s elbow with his free hand and began to guide Jack toward the nearest section of road. Jack veered in the direction of his car.

“How long had you really been standing behind me?” Jack asked suddenly.

“Oh…,” Jack felt Mac shrug as he replied, “since you told your dad I was a good guy.”

Jack hiccuped, relieved to see his car come into view. “You are a good guy, Mac,” he said as his partner opened the passenger door and eased him inside, covering his head to keep him from cracking it on the roof of the car.

“So are you, Jack,” he heard Mac reply softly as he closed the door.

When Mac slid behind the wheel, dropping his long-sleeved shirt and the empty beer cans in the back seat, Jack handed him the keys.

“You’re going to be okay, you know that, right?” Jack asked as Mac fired up the engine.

“I know,” Mac replied.

“And it’s not because you’re lucky,” he said, leaning back and closing his eyes as Mac pulled away from the cemetery and entered the Los Angeles traffic. “It’s because you know how to dance with whatever music life decides to play.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Mac said quietly, a smile in his voice.

“Welcome,” Jack replied.

The rules of life said no one got out of it alive, but Jack knew if there was anyone who could figure out a way around that, it would be his partner.

“How ‘bout some tunes?” Jack muttered, folding his arms across his chest.

“Sure thing, Jack,” Mac agreed.

Jack listened as the radio dial squelched through a few songs and then smiled when Mac paused and left it tuned to Willie Nelson’s ageless tremble singing about his heroes having always been cowboys.

Jack grinned, eyes closed. “Atta boy.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **a/n:** Thanks so much for reading. It's been fun playing in this fandom. If you all enjoyed, I'd love to hear from you. If you didn't enjoy...well, there's plenty more stories out there, I'm almost certain you'll find something. :)


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